Dark
by meanwhiletimely
Summary: Bellatrix, the Blacks, the Death Eaters - beginnings, endings, and the shadows in between. [Bellatrix/Voldemort, Bellatrix/Rodolphus]
1. Black Stars

**DARK**  
Chapter I – "Black Stars"

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**AZKABAN - **1983

_It's dark._

_Not the dark she knows, the dark she loves. There is no pleasure in this darkness, no delight in this destruction, no voices singing to her from the depths—just a cold, black emptiness. She is alone, and all her dreams and feelings died very long ago._

_She's surrounded by shadows that shift and flicker with all the unpredictability of a single solitary flame, or a shattered mind. Rise. Fall. Rise. Fall. Forever. She exhales, and watches them dance and waver with the moonlight on the cold stone walls, looking for shapes, pictures that will keep her sane. She can't find any, and it's probably too late for such endeavours in any case. She pulls up a tattered sleeve instead and traces the ugly white scar on her left forearm, caressing, stroking…it's too dark to see it, but when has she ever really needed the light? _He _would revel in her madness, savour it, feast upon it, and she would want Him to—He will always be with her, lurking in the darkest corners of her mind, away from their reach. They cannot take Him from her._

_She glances uneasily toward the bars of her cell, waiting. They should be returning soon. They've been gone for hours now; surely it's time…_

_They're playing with her, making her live in constant dread, constant uncertainty, knowing they will come but never knowing when, nearly _wanting _it in all the shivering anticipation…but she understands their games, of course. She's played them many times._

_They live—_exist—_to break her, to make her cry, to make her scream, just like all her many victims. She rarely gives them the satisfaction. She is strong. She is fierce, passionate, _faithful_. The warrior. Dementors won't defeat her, however high the price._

_She does admire her tormentors, occasionally, usually when they're not around. Their unadulterated sadism and revelry in the misery of others surpasses even her own. She thinks they're teaching her, in a way, making her crueller and still less human. Every day she loses a tiny bit of what little is left of her soul—though it's not really hers anymore, is it?_

_Sometimes it's all of them at once, for those rare periods when she's feeling more sane than usual, and afterwards she's lost for days._

_Sometimes it's just one, one dark hooded shape to single-mindedly terrorize her tortured mind, and she endures it. She always takes her penalties._

_Sometimes she imagines He is there, right outside her cell, standing still between the bars beneath that dark black hood, punishing her—and sometimes she thinks she sees a flash of scarlet eyes beneath the cloak, glinting and glistening in the darkness, or the sudden subtle movement of a long white finger. Sometimes she's sure she hears His whisper… "_Bella_."_

_And it's those times when she screams the loudest._

_For Him._

**ENGLAND** –1973

Diagon Alley was on a knife-sharp edge.

People glanced about uneasily as they passed, hurriedly shoving wrapped Christmas parcels into their bags and avoiding eye contact with each other as they held their wands close and pulled their heavy winter robes a little more tightly around them, guarding against unwanted eyes as much as the icy wind. There was a palpable tension in the air, and the street's low hum of hundreds of whispers and murmurs rose into an eerie, indistinguishable buzz that could be a warning call or a battle cry, or both. It blended together with the loud pitches of vendors and the playful shouts of children, slinking through the streets and creeping beneath doorways with an almost explosive desperation, an aching gestation of pent-up frustrations and clashing energies waiting for the right moment to overflow entirely into a continuous, drawn-out shriek.

At the snow-covered marble steps of Gringott's, several cloaked figures chanted as angry signs floated above them. _Muggle rights are human rights_, read one. _Fight for wizarding freedom, fight against the Act for the Preservation of Wizarding Strength and Security, _screamed another. One of the figures—a short, stout witch with snow-flecked auburn ringlets—called out passionately, "Forcing restrictions on Muggleborns' rights in the wizarding community by requiring proof of blood 'purity' is as much for their 'protection' as slaughtering Muggles is for theirs! Any who value liberty and justice must not let this travesty of an Act be enacted!" A few passersby gave nods of encouragement or shouts of solidarity to the protestors; most walked by quickly, pretending not to see or hear. Tension was all very well, they seemed wordlessly to say, but purposeful escalation was another matter entirely.

In front of the Daily Prophet headquarters, a grim speech by Nobby Leach, Minister for Magic, was playing on the wireless, and a freckled, rosy-cheeked boy yelled over it as he distributed the day's paper. "Another Muggle killing!" he shouted, voice tremulous and a little too gleeful at the chance to deliver such a dramatic headline. "Family of four found dead in Wiltshire!" Each copy was snatched up within minutes as people glanced quickly over the front page, some faces grim, others unreadable.

And across the street from Florean Fortescue's, a striking black-haired girl stormed out of Twilfitt and Tatting's, scowling at a glossy paper.

"_Tiresome Ministry politics are for once overshadowed this weekend, and by nothing less than the news that the eldest daughter of the House of Black is apparently once more on the market. Bellatrix Black is already known as much for her school accomplishments as she is for her stunning dark beauty—" _here the girl paused to snort in a most un-ladylike fashion—"_and since confidential sources report that her stormy romance with handsome young scion Rodolphus Lestrange is once again on the outs, we wait with bated breath to see which next prominent heir will be the latest to count himself among the few deemed worthy of the wealthiest and noblest young witch in Britain. Certain reputable sources say that Vulcan Mulciber—"_

Bellatrix Black slammed the latest publication of _Witch's Wear Daily _shut before tossing it back to the younger, grinning girl walking beside her, her mutinous expression torn somewhere between annoyance and self-righteous exasperation.

"'Tiresome Ministry politics'?" she spat out indignantly. "Yes, well, we wouldn't want the most important Wizengamot case in fifty years to outshine a petty Hogwarts 'romance_._'It's repulsive, it's as if none of what's happening even _matters_ to these fools—"

The younger girl at her side rolled her eyes, tossing her silky brown hair over her shoulder with a practiced, casual indifference, only the barest hints of a smirk betraying her knowledge that the action had caused a passing skinny boy carrying an armful of Christmas parcels to crash headlong into a street vendor. At first glance, fifteen-year-old Andromeda Black was her elder sister in slight miniature, a year younger with hair several shades lighter. A closer look would show their crucial differences—she was somewhat clumsy where Bellatrix moved with a feral grace, reserved where Bellatrix was wild, and calmly calculating where Bellatrix was all endless, uncontrollable passion. While they were similarly, undeniably beautiful, no one could confuse them for long. "Well, I personally enjoyed the implications regarding Mulciber—'reputable sources', hmm? Reputable sources by the name of…oh, Vulcan Mulciber, perhaps?"

Bellatrix snorted inelegantly again. "Well spotted."

Andromeda grinned. "You could and _have _been linked to worse. Mulciber's not _so _bad, Bella—I mean, he's really no 'handsome young scion', but…" She trailed off suddenly at the fleeting stormy expression on Bella's face. "Sorry," she said quickly. "You know I was only teas—"

Bellatrix snapped, "I told you not to talk about it, Andy." She walked more briskly, with Andromeda now having to hurry to keep up.

The younger Black sister sighed dramatically. "Right." She glanced over at Bella, biting her lip. "But—don't you think, when school starts up again—"

"_Andy_!" The cross edge in Bellatrix's voice unexpectedly gave way to light airiness as she threw her arms around her sister and spun her around in full view of the Alley's many other patrons, a breach of 'proper Black decorum' that Druella Black would no doubt be appalled by. "There are greater things, darling, greater things!"

If Andy was surprised or relieved by her sister's as always abrupt change in mood, she did not show it, merely raising her eyebrows in mock scepticism and saying sweetly, "Yes, Bella, sneaking out of Twilfitt's so that _you _can meet up with _your _school chums to no doubt discuss _your_ latest rule-flouting plot will _clearly _be the pristine highlight of my holiday."

Bella laughed her impossibly loud, unrestrained laugh. Several onlookers stared, whether in disapproval or admiration it was impossible to say. "I'll have you know, my lovely little _Prefect_, that although I am not at all opposed to sneaking out, a Mother-endorsed visit with our own cousin hardly qualifies, and she'll scarcely notice we've gone as long as Cissy remains with her to obsessively try on dozens of new dress robes."

Andromeda smirked at that, but grabbed Bella's arm and turned to her, suddenly serious. "Look, Bella, I know we have an…agreement." Bella laughed again, though softer this time—the Black sisters had occasionally been allowed excursions together into Diagon Alley since childhood, and it had been established years ago that they would, when needed or desired, go their separate ways once out of sight of a distracted Druella, a careless governess, or a Stupefied house elf, with no mention or discussion of their individual activities once reunited. It was certainly a mutually beneficial arrangement, and usually an innocent one, simply allowing each sister to spend time with her own friends and pursue her own interests unencumbered. Looking into Andy's unsmiling face now, though, Bella wondered a little uneasily just how much her younger sister knew or suspected about her recent plans. "And I know you're about to ask, so I have no problem covering for you and going to meet Evan and them by myself, alright? I like Evan, in any case. But Bella…" Andy's cool Black-grey eyes narrowed slightly. "You see how it is today, with the—the _protests_ and all." Her nose crinkled slightly, as if the mention alone was distasteful, and she lowered her voice, hurrying on before Bella could interrupt. "Just…be careful, will you? I don't want you getting hurt." She gave a quick, sardonic smile. "Or hurting anyone yourself, which Merlin knows is more likely anyway."

Bella smiled coolly and resumed a brisk walk down the winding street. The bustle of the main square had thinned out now, and only a few lone patrons hurried past. "There will be no injuries today, Andy, so go your merry way and I'll go mine—I'm only planning on meeting up with Willa for a bit," she said firmly when Andromeda opened her mouth again in seeming protest, and she seized back the copy of _Witch's Wear Daily_. "I'd like to discuss this foul _Lestrange _business with someone who might sympathize a little better than my own sister, apparently."

Andromeda raised an eyebrow. "As in, your most devoted aficionada? Bella, you can't stand to be around Willa Blishwick at _school _for longer than it takes to order her to do your Charms homework, why in Salazar's name would you want to see her during holiday to discuss—ah—a 'petty Hogwarts romance?'" Bella coloured a little at that, but Andy continued intently over her started protest, "What are you really doing?"

Bella shrugged with what she hoped was an air of disaffected mystery. "For me to know, you to…et cetera." She looked over at her sister in mild irritation. "And this Prefect-inspired _inquisitiveness_ must end. Sweet Salazar, Andy, you used to be fun._"_

The look of hurt on Andromeda's face passed almost unnoticeably before she replied calmly, "Perhaps we just have different ideas of fun these days."

Bellatrix was saved from replying to _that_ by a sudden cry of recognition from a light-haired girl a few feet away. They had reached the Leaky Cauldron, and Andy was rushing over to embrace her friend Alice Howard. Bella spotted a tall, slender blond boy with the classically handsome face of a Greek statue lounging at a nearby table, apprehension flitting swiftly across his delicately carved features as he saw her, and she inclined her head slightly toward Andromeda. Evan Rosier nodded in understanding, and with a final cheery wave to cousin and sister both, Bellatrix turned quickly and set off toward her own destination at last.

The dark side-street entrance was familiar by now. The Alley was technically forbidden to her—it was certainly not an acceptable, or perhaps _safe_, place for a Pureblood young woman to venture to—but as a Black, she had found long ago in the course of several secret trips alone that even if recognized, no one would dare disturb her, let alone turn her away. There were some places where secrets were not only welcomed, but positively thrived upon, and the twisting shadows of Knockturn Alley had always been one of them.

Brimming with anticipation, her eyes bright and focused as she stared down the dim, crooked alleyway, Bella hastily checked that her knife was secure in her belt and that no one was watching before striding confidently past the rickety wooden sign and into the badly lit side-street. She had taken only a few short steps when she froze at the shock of sudden, cackling laughter very close to her side. She whirled about, unsheathing the knife again in an instant, to see a ragged, wandless beggarwoman with bones in her hair, laughing even louder at the weapon, screeching, "Care to have your fortune told, my dear?"

Bella replaced the knife with a look of disgust and said disdainfully, "Get out of my way. I have no time for scum." She moved to sweep past, but the woman reached out lightning-fast and grabbed her wrist with a surprisingly strong grip, meeting her furious eyes with a sickening, toothless grin. "A Black princess _here_…so Pure, so fragile…"

Bellatrix was frozen in her grip, somehow immobilized as she glared into the woman's shining crystal-blue eyes, panic rising as she realized she was somehow unable to break free. The beggar leaned closer, and Bella winced at her rancid breath, disgusted and alarmed at her own apparent powerlessness. "He'll destroy you, you know," whispered the woman with a sudden clear intensity, no longer laughing madly, her voice low and insistent. "Your salvation and your ruin both together, your fate, your destiny, the darkness, you can't escape—_he'll throw you to Death_." She broke off suddenly, crystal eyes gone wide and blank.

Bella instantly found she could jerk away from the woman's vice-like grip and backed away immediately. "Touch me again," she said to the woman in a low, dangerous voice, hoping she couldn't perceive its shaking, "and I'll kill you." She threw on her cloak's hood and continued quickly down the alleyway without daring a backward glance, hearing the madwoman's laughter fading behind as she called out to unseen passerby, "Experience the art of divination, get your fortune told!"

Bellatrix walked faster, slightly shaken in spite of herself as she attempted to put the creature's unfathomable words and blue crystal eyes out of her head. Merlin knew what that woman was, but Knockturn Alley _was_ full of such…unsavoury characters, after all, and she kept herself alert and ready for further disturbances as she left the dark alley entrance and entered the side street at last, still poorly lit and only barely inhabited—quieter than Diagon Alley, but with no less tension in the air, with strangers in hooded cloaks mulling quickly about and various unscrupulous and no-doubt illegal items being traded quietly in the shadows.

Her purposeful excitement returned in an anticipatory rush as she glimpsed the small group standing in an isolated corner near the pub entrance of The Hangman's Rope. Speedily approaching the meeting place, Bella ignored the fluttering, nervous feeling in her stomach as she noted the unmistakable figure of Rodolphus Lestrange among them.

He was, of course, the first to spot her. "Lovely of you to turn up, Black…so thoughtful of you not to keep anyone waiting." Rodolphus, when he stepped out of the shadows wearing an infuriatingly cocky smirk, was as powerfully built and ruggedly handsome as ever, with perfectly messed brown hair, intense, dark-blue eyes, and a wolfish, sharply defined mouth as skilled at throwing out barbed insults as it was at—_no. _Bella clenched her jaw tightly. They were finished, _for good_ this time, and thoughts like _that _were hardly conducive. Rodolphus just smiled his razor-sharp smile and bowed to her mockingly. "But I suppose a _Black_ simply isn't used to being constrained by such a mundane concept as timeliness."

"And I should hardly think we need _your _approval with regard to etiquette, Lestrange," Bella snapped dismissively, ignoring Rodolphus' stormy expression as she turned smoothly to the rest of the group. "I was…kept. It's no matter, this won't take long." She appraised them all quickly. Lestrange, Mulciber, Avery, and Wilkes—all looking back at her with varying degrees of resentment. "No sign of Malfoy and his cronies, then? Excellent. Tomorrow night—"

Rodolphus, however, would not be silent. "Where's Rosier, then? We need him for the spell, Bella—"

"_Don't _call me that," she hissed. Vulcan Mulciber snorted with derisive amusement and smiled innocently at Bellatrix's glare. "He's at the Cauldron with my sister and some other fifth-years," she continued grudgingly, rummaging in her satchel rather than looking at Rodolphus and making sure _Witch's Wear Daily _was shoved down to the very bottom of it. "My mother thinks we're both with him, and I couldn't very well bring Andromeda along—besides, the less his _father _suspects, the better. What we're doing isn't exactly something the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement would—or well, _should_—approve of."

Rodolphus smirked again. "Because Damien Rosier's own privateactivities usually_ are_. Of course." But he shrugged elegantly and let it stand. "Fill Evan in on your own before school starts up again, then. Once he's done playing governess to darling Andy."

"You will refer to her—" started Bellatrix through clenched teeth, but she was interrupted again, this time by the soft, silken voice of Mulciber.

"If you two are _quite _finished bickering over irrelevancies, may we proceed with what we came for?" He looked at Bella with a smile that was really more of a leer; she grimaced back at him. It was always a disconcerting experience staring into Mulciber's eyes; he had a strange, compelling way of getting you to do whatever he wanted you to just by looking at you. "Let's have the book. Avery and I will go through it and gather the required materials for the grand event in the next few days. We'll be ready to try it out first day back, and then—"

"Have we picked a—a victim, yet, though?" Lorcan Wilkes, a smaller, bookish, overcompensating nouveau-riche boy that Rodolphus clearly kept around for brains rather than lineage, spoke up nervously. He flushed as they all looked at him, interested. "I mean, a _subject_. To…test it on." He swallowed as they all exchanged looks. None of them had thought too deeply about that very crucial aspect of the plan.

"No, you're right," mused Rodolphus slowly. "With times being what they are, we'll want to make an appropriate statement." He grinned. "This isn't all fun and games, after all."

"The Dark Arts never are," Bellatrix shot back loftily. No matter that her own self-taught knowledge of such things was elementary at best…she would continue to give off the impression of superior understanding, and they would be none the wiser. No one knew the inner workings of the Black household, so they would, as always, assume what she let them. Rodolphus, for his part, merely inclined his head sardonically.

"Mary MacDonald," Mulciber said suddenly, with an odd relish in his voice. "That's who we'll use." He smiled unpleasantly, his light, almost hypnotic green eyes lit up in anticipation. "Pretty, outspoken little Mudblood Gryffindor fifth-year—she's perfect."

Bellatrix shrugged and reached again into her satchel, bringing out the heavy Dark spellbook she'd taken from the Family library a few hours previously—currently enchanted to appear as a harmless tattered copy of old Beedle tales—and shoving it at Mulciber. "Fine. The _subject _isn't as important as the _results_—as long as a Mudblood or Mudblood sympathizer is made a satisfactory example, we'll have succeeded in making our mark, which is more than Lucius Malfoy and his little followers can say despite all their talk." She turned to Altair Avery, who was, unsurprisingly, wearing his customary look of haughty, perpetual boredom. "And speaking of—shall we discuss the second reason for our meeting, then? Tell us what you overheard at Borgin and Burke's yesterday."

Altair said deftly, excruciatingly polite as ever, "Of course. I'm not at all positive it was anything of importance, but your suspicions were correct, Rodolphus—Abraxus Malfoy is absolutely planning something he would prefer…the public at large…not to know about, and he's including Lucius in whatever it is. 'It would be unwise to share this with anyone at school,' were, I believe, his exact words." His well-groomed brows furrowed thoughtfully. "I only wish I could have made out _what, _exactly, _'this' _was. Burke was watching me closely and I could only linger by the counter so long without arousing suspicion—but I could make out one phrase in passing." He paused. "The Knights of Walpurgis."

They all looked at each other, immediately intrigued. "_That's _what this great secret Malfoy keeps boasting about has to do with?" said Bellatrix, puzzled. "The Knights?" The rest of them looked equally bewildered, and she pursed her lips tightly, thinking. It was unsurprising, if irritating, that the Family would keep _her_ in the dark about Knights business, but Rodolphus, Vulcan, and Altair were all the Heirs of their own families and would be joining that most powerful secret society themselves someday, taking their rightful places as the behind-the-scenes rulers of the wizarding world. It was odd—and suspicious—that all three of their fathers would choose not to inform their eldest sons about something like this, and yet Abraxus Malfoy was apparently confiding in Lucius…

"But wait," Mulciber said, chiselled face alive with sudden excitement, "I walked into my father talking about the Knights with a stranger in the fireplace last week—didn't think much of it at the time, but now that you mention it, he _was_ really flustered when I entered the room, ended the conversation immediately—"

"Tell us what was said," Bellatrix interjected impatiently, and he grinned, looking her up and down in a leering, predatory way that made her feel slightly ill as he took a step toward her, his large, muscular physicality overbearing even to Bella's own powerful presence. "What'll you give me if I do, Black?"

She felt Rodolphus let out a low growl as he moved behind her, and she was suddenly infuriated with him for it, for thinking he still had some sort of claim to her, for thinking she needed _him_ to defend her, for thinking she _wanted _him to. The stinging jinx hit both of them so fast neither had time to react, and the stupid, injured look on Mulciber's face as he stumbled backwards clutching his arm was not nearly as satisfying to her as the sharp gasp of pain she heard from Rodolphus behind her. Avery stifled laughter. Bellatrix did not turn around.

"Tell us what was said, Mulciber," she repeated dangerously, and he glared at her, rubbing at his muscular forearm.

"My father mentioned something about a riddle," he muttered, resentfully now. "And the voice in the fire—higher, kind of cold…it was strange—said, _and I quote_," he rolled his eyes at Bella—"'If the Knights of Walpurgis would prefer death to revolution, I see no reason not to give them both.'"

There was an uneasy silence and no one spoke for a few moments. Bellatrix gaped at him disbelievingly. "And you didn't think talk of…of riddles and death and _revolution_ was important enough to mention until just now?"

"Well, _no_, Black, I didn't," spat Mulciber, a little defensively, "and it's probably nothing, isn't it? Just more dramatic talk about that bloody Act of the Ministry's—"

"Find out who your father's been talking to, Mulciber," Rodolphus broke in firmly, "and why. And take a few pointers on eavesdropping from your best mate, will you?" Avery smiled tightly and Mulciber scowled. Rodolphus ran his fingers through his hair in consternation. "It could be nothing," he said finally, "or it could be everything. With some of the…declarations…in the Prophet these days, I wouldn't take any mention of revolution lightly."

Bella gave a dismissive wave. "If you're talking about the vague threats of the self-styled _Lord Voldemort_—I really don't think an anonymous, wanted terroristwould have anything to do with the Knights of Walpurgis. This so-called 'lord' is as likely to be an imaginary straw man for the Muggle-lovers to bolster public sentiment toward their side as—"

"But we have no idea," Wilkes reminded her timidly. "We don't even know who he is—or who he represents—or if he even exists—but since it's clear he's connected with all these recent attacks…" He bit his lower lip thoughtfully. "Would you put it past the Knights to be involved with him somehow?"

Altair Avery snorted with immaculate scepticism. "You're saying the Knights of Walpurgis, the most powerful faction of Pureblood supremacy in Britain, the most respected and elite members of society—our _fathers_—would condone such…crude, vulgar methods?" Mulciber scoffed at that, considering their own upcoming plans, but Avery rushed on heedlessly, "With the current climate—protests and Squib Rights marches and last week's Pureblood Coalition riots and Salazar knows what else—and with the Knights attempting to push this blood purity agenda through the Wizengamot—"

"All I'm saying is to keep our eyes and ears open until we figure out what Malfoy's up to and pull off this little stunt of our own," said Rodolphus with a commanding note of finality. He met Bella's eyes. "And Black…"

"I should go!" she snapped quickly, suddenly very aware of how close he was, and the minty scent of his breath hovering visibly in the cold winter air between them, and the precise angle of his well-toned forearm as he casually rested a hand on his wand, and— "Andromeda will be expecting me—we'll all be keeping each other updated through owl for the next few days, then, and otherwise I'll see you all back at school—goodbye." She hurried off toward Diagon Alley again without looking back, breathing a little too hard. Whatever it was he had been about to say, she didn't trust herself to hear it. Business had been conducted smoothly enough, but that last look in his eyes was anything but business-like.

_Damn_ Rodolphus Lestrange. It wasn't at all fair for him to stillbe so impossibly attractive, after everything he'd done…_But you're not entirely innocent yourself, though, are you,_said a repugnant little voice in the back of her head. _Not anymore_. She scowled before unceremoniously pushing all unwanted thoughts of Rodolphus from her mind. There really _were _greater things to be concerned with, after all, and it would no longer do to have such…distractions.

Thankfully the crazed beggarwoman was nowhere to be seen as she exited the Alley and entered the main street again. A seedy salesman offered up illegal cursed objects from a rickety wooden cart in the shadows—"A poison locket for the lovely lady? Perhaps a love potion—the most potent you'll find." She walked on. It had started to snow heavily, and people were Disapparating all around, the air filled with loud _pops _and shouted goodbyes. Druella would be wanting to leave as well; perhaps she was already at the Cauldron, wondering why her eldest daughter had left her younger sister there alone…_would _Andy cover for her this time? She half-ran now, almost skidding on the icy cobblestones, her heavy black hair coming out of its elegant updo and whipping about behind her, and as she turned the corner to the pub's street entrance, her initial relief at the sight of Andy and Evan sitting alone together indoors vanished when she recognized the man just coming around the opposite corner: none other than her most famous, powerful, and constantly interfering uncle, Damien Rosier.

He smiled guilelessly as she approached, his golden-blond, blue-eyed classic Rosier looks (genes that had somehow managed to override the usually dominating Black ones in his youngest niece, Narcissa) appearing as always at odds with what Bella knew to be a far darker, manipulative nature. Wizarding society knew the recently-appointed Head of DMLE as a wealthy playboy, fun-loving, certainly, but always in good standing; all of which he was, of course—but it was less known that those who underestimated him as a real and highly capable threat rarely survived to regret it.

He had blackmailed Bellatrix once, when he had caught her as a nine-year-old child using her father's spare wand to toy with an unfortunate Muggle girl that had wandered onto the grounds of Manoir Noire, into stealing for him a strange, unknown, probably illegal potion from storage in Grimmauld Place, and continuing to hold her in his debt months afterward. Though he had always otherwise been indulgent with her, she'd rather disliked him after that, but having done quite a bit of blackmail herself over the years, it was hard not to admire him, however grudgingly. But now, caught sneaking back from Knockturn Alley to where he must know she was supposed to have been all along, she felt nine years old all over again under her uncle's all-too-knowing gaze.

He gave a signal for the three Magical Law Enforcement Officers behind him to disperse, and they did so immediately, leaving their leader alone. "Why, Bella Elladora, my very favourite niece." He bowed and briefly kissed her hand. "What lovely weather for a solitary walk—or perhaps run—in the snow, isn't it?"

Bellatrix smiled sweetly, snowflakes collecting on her eyelashes. "I can only imagine, Uncle Damien, having stepped outside for just a few short minutes to allow Evan and Andy some privacy—you would know better than me, patrolling on a day like this. Tell me, how _is _the Ministry dealing with these unpleasant…disturbances?"

Damien smirked, looking at her shrewdly. "Quite well indeed…though I'm not at all sure my dear sister would approve of telling you the gory details, 'unpleasant' as they are."

"Naturally," said Bella wryly.

The fact that Damien's warm smiles never met his eyes would never stop being unsettling. He gave one of those disarming smiles now, saying mildly (she sharpened her gaze—it was when Damien Rosier was at his mildest that he was at his most dangerous), "But I must confess myself surprised, Bellatrix—I wouldn't think a pretty, privileged little Pureblood witch like yourself would concern herself with such…loathsome politics."

She bristled a little at the condescension, but with considerable effort maintained a civil, saccharine tone. "It's difficult to remain entirely sequestered from such glaring headlines, Uncle. And in any case, I believe it essential for even 'pretty, privileged Pureblood girls' to have at least a partial grasp of what is happening in the world beyond society gossip—our world and our ideals are under threat, and neither my sex or my age, and certainly not my station makes me incapable of defending them if necessary. Sir," she added stiffly.

"Eloquently put." He simply looked at her for a moment, appearing deep in thought. Bella's cool smile faltered a little under his probing stare before he glanced down pointedly at the expensive silver pocket-watch hanging from his immaculate Ministry officiate suit, the long white silk gloves he always wore as spotless as ever. "Ah, I was just going to pick up Evan—would you care to join me in re-entering to collect your sister, as well?" he asked lightly, holding out an arm.

Bellatrix looked at him carefully. If he had decided to let her suspicious entrance pass without further comment, she would not protest, but it would be wise to remember the favour later. It always was, with Damien.

"Absolutely, Uncle," she said just as lightly, taking his arm, and they stepped over the threshold into the Leaky Cauldron together, several patrons looking up as they entered and whispering among themselves. For their parts, Evan and Andy rose immediately, and just in time, as Druella Black had arrived outside with Cissy in tow, chatting with Clara Gamp and holding two armfuls of overflowing shopping bags.

"We had better go, then," said Bella quickly, taking Andromeda's hand and leading her toward the door again. "Lovely to see you, Uncle—Evan—"

"Always a pleasure," agreed Damien smoothly. "I must thank you both for keeping Evan company while I was otherwise occupied for a bit—and do say hello to Druella for me."

"Of course," said Bellatrix gaily, pushing Andy halfway out the door to where their mother was waiting impatiently with Narcissa. "Looking forward to seeing you both at the Family's holiday dinner party tomorrow night."

Damien's cornflower-blue eyes glinted strangely as he smiled again. "Oh _yes_."

Bella hesitated an instant, wishing she had even a few seconds alone with Evan to discuss certain recent developments, but her cousin gave a thin, shaky smile of his own, Damien's gloved hand tight on his shoulder, and father and son disappeared into a nearby Floo fireplace with a flourish.

* * *

One of the very best things about Narcissa, Bellatrix reflected dispassionately as she watched her fourteen-year-old sister whirl about the room in a pale, flower-scented frenzy, was her inimitable ability to _distract_.

Sensing tension between Bella and Andy upon returning to the manor, Cissy had taken it upon herself to drag them both into her own airy, mirror-filled bedchamber for an impromptu fashion display of the day's purchases. As Andromeda laughed cheerfully at Narcissa's always spot-on imitations of various society witches, spinning around gracefully in expensive new gossamer dress robes with her nose in the air, she caught Bella's eye and rolled her own, smiling. Bellatrix grinned back, glad to see their little Alley argument was apparently already forgotten.

"Oh Merlin, I almost forgot," Cissy was saying breathlessly, still laughing as she held a new light blue robe up for inspection in the mirror. "You'll never _guess _who was coming out of Florean's as Mother and I left Twilfitt's."

Andromeda and Bellatrix looked at each other and said in unified resignation, "Lucius Malfoy."

"_Yes!_" Cissy squealed, collapsing onto the bed next to them, robe tossed carelessly to the floor.

Bellatrix said casually, toying with Cissy's hair, "And who was your golden boy frolicking with today?"

Narcissa gave a small smile, not missing Bella's pointed interest in her hated Hogwarts rival's holiday company. "His _friends_, Bella, who else? The usual—Walden, Gregory, Robert, Severus—oh, _you _know." She sighed dreamily, and Bella sat back, satisfied. None of them had been anywhere near Knockturn Alley today, then. "And he spoke to me. He _said my name_!"

"You'll be engaged by the summer—" said Andy, absently shooting little smoky hearts out of her wand toward her sister.

Narcissa gasped dramatically. "Do you think so?"

Andromeda smirked. "—with seven slippery blond babies by fall, born with oil in their hair and sneers on their lips. It's clearly fate."

Bella laughed; Cissy huffed and smacked Andy with a satin pillow, adopting the cold, lofty voice that was a staple of her usual ice-queen persona in public. "Just because _you_haven't a romantic bone in your body, Andromeda Cassiopeia Black—"

"Or _any _bones in your body," said Bellatrix, grinning wickedly and making an obscene gesture. Narcissa giggled and blushed, scandalized, and Andy gasped loudly, covering her eyes in mock offense. They fell over each other laughing, and Bella choked out finally, "Cissy, I eagerly await the day when you finally outgrow this tragic Malfoy infatuation. Of all the insufferable prats—"

Andromeda had a sudden coughing fit that sounded oddly like _Lestrange_ (Bellatrix shoved her), and Narcissa hopped off the bed again and flawlessly curtsied to an invisible suitor. "And _I _eagerly await the day of my society debut, when he will at last declare his long-time love for me and—"

"And then the oily babies, yes, we know," sighed Andy, shaking her head at Bella sadly. "She's hopeless."

Cissy smiled contentedly and rang for a house-elf to come pick up the dozens of dresses scattered about the floor as she sat down at her boudoir and removed her favourite sapphire earrings in preparation for bed. "Oh, did you hear about Uncle's latest row with Sirius?" she asked suddenly, with a glance at Bella through the mirror.

Bellatrix sat up, incredulous. "Again?" For the past two days, Orion, Walburga, Sirius, and Regulus had been staying at Manoir Noire in preparation for tomorrow's holiday dinner party, and for the past two days, this had simply meant much-increased levels of screaming around the manor as Sirius viciously argued with the Family over everything from the length of his hair to his ever-growing list of Hogwarts detentions. Bella had known it would only be a matter of time before it was finally demanded of Sirius that he cease his pointless, attention-seeking rebellions and begin to behave as the proper Heir should, Gryffindor or no, but none of them had expected the inevitable clash to be quite so severe. Sirius had furiously sat down to last night's supper with deep purple bruises visible just underneath his crisp white dress shirt, simmering with anger and refusing to meet her eyes when she looked at him, but if Orion had thought a little pain would force Sirius into submission at last, he had clearly been mistaken.

"Mother said he asked to go to the Potters' again," Cissy said delicately, beginning to plait her hair, and Bellatrix frowned, worried. If he was still insisting on associating with his liberal blood-traitor friends—most especially the son of Charlus Potter, the very _sponsor_ of the opposing counter-resistance to the Act causing so much strife in the Wizengamot—the success of this intervention was looking very unlikely indeed. Narcissa gave a soft sigh before saying quietly, "I think you should talk to him, Bella. We all know he won't heed his parents, but you and Sirius have always been…fond of each other. I think he'll still listen to you." When Bellatrix did not respond, thinking crossly of all the many reasons why this was equally unlikely to work, given their attitudes toward each other of late, Cissa added gently, "And Reggie is…upset."

There was a sudden low knock on the door and Mitzi, the sisters' personal house elf, entered apologetically. "Forgive Mitzi, Mistress Cissy, but Master Cygnus is wanting to see Mistress Bella in his study, and asks Mitzi to let Cissy and Andy know that it is time for bed."

Andromeda yawned and headed for the door. "It most certainly is. 'Night, girls." With a curious look at Bella, Narcissa nodded. "Thank you, Mitzi. Hang up these robes and then that will be all." The little house elf bowed, and Bellatrix shrugged, blew a quick kiss at her sisters, and headed downstairs to her father's study on the third floor of the manor.

It took only a moment after her firm knock for the huge, ornately carved doors to fly open. "Enter," called Cygnus Black's cool voice, and Bellatrix stepped into the room.

Her father's huge, secluded study was dim tonight, lit only by four wrought-iron candelabras taller than she was, shining on upholstered wall tapestries emblazoned with the Family crest that must have been a hundred years old, and stacks upon stacks of old, leather-bound books lining the frescoed walls. Bella had visited it often, growing up, usually as the starting place for private lessons with her father as he trained her in duelling, weaponry, flying, and magic more advanced than most fourth-years had even begun to be taught at Hogwarts. _You'll be the pride of the Family, my beautiful little warrior, _he would say proudly as she near-effortlessly mastered each new lesson. For their part, however, the Family had never approved of Cygnus' treatment of his eldest daughter, as far as she knew.

Cygnus' desk was carved obsidian, and he sat at the head of it in a magnificent antique chair that was really more of a throne, cutting an impressive figure with his slick black hair silhouetted by starlight from the window behind him, grey eyes calm and focused as he looked up at her. A glass bowl filled with some unidentified, shining silvery liquid smelling of old spices was placed off to the side next to several worn, dangerous-looking spellbooks, a rune-encrusted knife, and two mysterious carved Dark talismans that might have been Indian, or Turkish—she couldn't resist a curious, longing look at them.

"Bellatrix." Her father gestured to the empty chair in front of the desk, stony demeanour softening a little at the sight of his favourite daughter. "Sit."

She did so, and looked to him expectantly. "You wanted to see me, Father?"

Cygnus studied her a moment, inscrutable, his long, elegant hands pressed together as if in prayer. "Undoubtedly." He toyed absently with the Black signet on his ring finger, the silver of the metal flashing brightly in the candlelight. "You are sixteen this month, Bellatrix. Next year you will come of age and make your debut into society." She nodded, waiting. Clearly he had not called her here solely to remind her of such an obvious fact—and sure enough, he continued, muted words weighing heavily in the silence. "It has not escaped our notice that—Hogwarts dalliances with Rodolphus Lestrange notwithstanding, and with those recently ended, I am told—you have no clear potential engagement to announce on the occasion, as is traditional for a family of our—" he paused carefully—"pedigree."

Bella's eyes widened, and she stammered, affronted, "I—I was not aware I was to be already planning for an _engagement_, Father—"

"Then I have failed to sufficiently impress your duty upon you!" She shrank back a little at the unexpected vehemence in his voice, and he softened again, seeing it. "My anger is not with you, Bella. But you must understand your place in this Family—"

"You think I do not!" she broke in fiercely, livid now despite herself, but stopped short at the realization that she had just interrupted him. Lowering her eyes and voice with effort, she finished curtly, "Forgive me, Father, but _I _understand the workings of this House perfectly. You would perhaps be wise to talk to your eldest nephew about _duty_instead."

Cygnus stood abruptly. Bellatrix did not dare look up, and he turned toward the window, voice low and dangerous. "Your cousin is being dealt with, Bellatrix, and _you _would be wise to hold your tongue on matters that do not concern you. Yet."

"What does that mea—"

"Silence!" Her father's voice rang out loud and clear, the timbre of it reverberating off the high, vaulted study ceiling. _Silence. Silence. Silence. _Stunned, Bellatrix sat very still, fuming and feeling very small and powerless. When Cygnus turned round to face her again, he was even stiller—an immovable statue of cold, hard stone. His lips hardly moved when he spoke at last, very slowly. "You, Bellatrix, are not the Heir."

The indifference, the _injustice _of that statement, said in so cold and uncaring a tone, was too much to bear. "Yes, but—but Sirius—the _Gryffindor_—you would say he's better than me, Father, that he is more well-prepared than I to take on the full mantle of the Family, that he even _believes, _that he even _wants_—!"

"It does not matter what either of you _wants_!" Cygnus' voice truly was raised now, his formidable Black temper more than matching his daughter's. She wondered if her sisters could hear it—or worse, Sirius. "Your childish days of book study and weapons practice and duelling lessons are over, Bellatrix. It has been collectively determined that like Sirius, you, too, will begin to behave as is fitting for your position in this Family, is that clear?"

"But Father!" she yelled. "I'm a _Black_—I should—"

His Silencing spell hit strong; she choked a little and glared. Cygnus spoke slowly and deliberately. "You are a daughter of the House, not a son. You will begin to intensively prepare to make a _worthy _marriage based on our selection and approval and give birth to Heirs of your own, you will return the copy of _Secrets of the Darkest Art _currently missing from the Family library, you will leave behind any foolish notions you may have of meddling in the affairs of men greater and more powerful than you, and Sirius—_Sirius_ will continue to be the scion of this House, with all that that entails, do you understand?"

For a moment, Bellatrix imagined small daggers shooting from her eyes to stab her father along the pale line of throat just visible above the heavy brocade collar of his robes. The Silencing Charm lifted in a cool coil of air around her throat and she spoke without expression. "I do."

"Good," said Cygnus simply, and she winced inwardly at the tangible strain in his voice. "Now leave me." He looked pointedly at the door and Bellatrix swept toward it when she might have imagined him speaking once more, so softly she could barely hear him.

"Oh, Bellatrix." She heard the faraway exhaustion in her father's voice, heard him collapse once more into the large embossed chair. "What a pity you weren't born a son."

She paused for only an instant before slamming the vaulted study doors shut behind her.

* * *

She wasn't surprised to find him there.

She should have been, perhaps. But in spite of everything, she still knew him better than anyone. She knew that she knew him like she knew herself, knew his features, peculiarities, thrills, fears, passions as well as her own—he was still her likeness, her reflection, her defiant, angry shadow. And at that moment, she knew there was nowhere else either of them would be more drawn to.

She approached quietly, shivering a little in her thin nightgown once out in the freezing night air but not minding the cold; she never did. Cold brought clarity, a precise lucidity that burned palpably through throbbing, icy veins, awakening and enlivening the senses in a way that ordinary fire could not—_cold heat_. Looking at his still, aristocratic profile—at nearly sixteen, he was more than coming into his archetypal Black looks, so at odds with a red and gold Gryffindor tie at school but so fitting here, among ancient cool-toned mansions and jewelled green robes encrusted with the Family coat of arms—she knew he felt it, too. Of course.

Neither of them moved or looked over once she joined him in leaning against the cold stone railing of the manor's highest balcony, opening out from the draped fifth floor drawing room, staring out at the starry, snow-covered English countryside with a low sigh.

"Why are you here." It was not a question.

"Same reason you are, Sirius. To see ourselves glittering and burning up there, to seize that reminder of what we are, of where we come from, of what we've been given—I need it, too." She followed his gaze to where she knew it would lead—a bright gleaming beacon somewhere in the distance overhead. Sirius. The Dog Star. Dazzling potent potential sparkling across the sky in a tapestry that existed for billions of years before the one in each of their sitting rooms. They were all part of the same constellation—Orion, the birthplace of stars. The iron in their blood came directly from dying supernovas, from thousands of dying stars exploding every second, whole worlds obliterated into nothingness and leaving only _them. _Of course he was still drawn to it—the power, the _connection_. She smiled, torn between affection and contempt, as she always was with Sirius, now. But her sulky, troubled mood was overwhelmed suddenly with a brim of confident certainty. He would come back into the fold of the Family, and take his rightful place as the Heir, and then no one would any longer be concerned with _hers_. The poison taint of blood-traitor friends would wash away eventually and Gryffindor would mean_nothing_, in the end, not when Black blood still ran so powerfully through veins and stars. She tore her eyes away from _Gamma Orionis—_the warrior star, Bellatrix—and shot him a sideways glance. "We all used to do it together, find our stars…as a game. I know you remember."

He didn't bother denying any of it—what would be the point? His lips twisted into what was probably a mirthless smile, and he shifted a little into a slightly different, but no less effortlessly poised, balance, all arrogant, uncaring languor…it was disquieting, sometimes, to see her own movements mirrored so perfectly in his. When he spoke again, his tone was sharp and caustic, his light slate grey eyes gone dark and stormy and his words slurred only ever-so-slightly. "_'What we've been given'_…bitter words for you, Bella? I'm not the only one being screamed at tonight, for once. Thank you, by the way, for that little deflection. Truly." His gave a sarcastic head bow; colour rushed to Bellatrix's face, she opened her mouth to shoot back some stinging reply—and it was then that she noticed the expensive goblin-wrought silver goblet in his left hand, and the half-empty bottle of elf-made wine at his feet—the finest in the Family's cabinet, probably.

"Ah. Drinking alone, are we, _Siri_?" she bit out derisively.

He gave a scathing bark of a laugh. "I _was_, darling. Until you decided to show up and heighten the misery a little." He looked at her, contempt written all over his sharp features but not quite covering the desperate exhaustion beneath. "You can tell them your moving little star speeches won't do any good; as far as I'm concerned this entire fucking Noble and Most Ancient House can go to hell."

Bellatrix looked up at the sky again, choosing not to meet the blatant scorn in his eyes. "_Language_, Sirius." And softer, "Why do you say such things?"

"I never say anything I don't mean."

"That wasn't the question."

"No, it was the only _answer _you're going to get, so why don't you sod off and leave me to drown my sorrows in blissful starry peace?"

Scorching silence for several long minutes. The tension sizzled between them like a spell, waiting for one of them to sever it.

Sirius caved first, picking up the bottle with a heavy sigh and thrusting the goblet at her. The blood-red liquid jostled over the side a little, spilling several small drops between them on the freezing stone of the balcony. "Stay, then," he said, flippant and dismissive. "Stay and drink with me, since the 'alone' part has already been rendered so horribly invalid."

"So _eloquent_ for a teenage drunkard, Sirius." She took the goblet and downed it in a single graceful gulp without so much as a lip stain.

He raised one dark eyebrow at her prowess and took a long sip from the bottle himself. "So _hypocritical _for a _Slytherin_, Bella—oh, wait. Something might be off with that statement."

She ignored it and gave a tight-lipped smile. "Shall we blame the missing wine on a house elf, then?"

He snorted in accord. "Depends—d'you think inebriated robbery might be enough to finally get Kreacher's head nailed to that fucking wall?"

She rolled her eyes, reaching for the bottle. "Give it to me, Merlin knows you've had enough."

"Be my bloody guest," he slurred, and she poured herself another drink. They lapsed into silence again, but a somehow comfortable one this time, lost in their own thoughts. Bella began to shiver unconsciously, the alcohol not being enough to fully insulate her against the cold in the flimsy nightgown, and Sirius reached over automatically to pull her to him, rubbing her arms for warmth. She leaned instinctively into the warm strength of his body—though almost a year younger than her, he was taller, and lithely muscled—quite naturally, physical closeness with him feeling, for this moment, as innately _right_ as it once did, before Hogwarts had succeeded in ripping them apart.

"It's late and you're cold," he said distantly, resting his chin on her sleek black hair. "We should go inside. _Parties_ tomorrow and all." The bitterness was back in his voice.

"Fine," she said, pulling back to meet his eyes fully this time and surprised at their stark intensity. She hesitated, then added firmly, mind a little hazy with the wine, "Our blood is older than we are, Sirius. You can't deny it forever."

She stifled a cry as he suddenly pushed her away from him and threw the bottle hardagainst the stone of the balcony, fleeting peaceful moment shattered along with the glass. He turned back to her, grey storm clouds gathering in his eyes with a crackling ferocity. "You think you know me," he spat, backing her into the edge of the balcony and trapping her there with one arm, the other entwined in her hair. He breathed in deeply, eyes flickering slightly. "You don't." He leaned close, roughly tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and breathing into it, breath heavy with the scent of alcohol and cold, restrained anger. "And I don't owe you anything."

"You're drunk," she said tightly, shoving him off her with effort. He stumbled back and gave his loud, barking laugh again.

"Oh yes," he agreed mockingly, leaning into the door to the drawing room. "Very, very beautifully drunk."

"Good_night_, cousin," she said fiercely—he was staring at her, expression torn somewhere between loathing and regret, and she was tired of waiting for him to make up his mind between the two. He started a little, roused from whatever stupid drunken stupor he was in and walked inside, slamming the balcony door shut again with one last sardonic look.

Bellatrix stood still for a moment, collecting herself and trying to hate him—trying _not_ to? She wasn't even sure anymore. She lit her wand and magically cleaned up the shattered pieces of the bottle almost mechanically. When she whispered _nox_, the light was extinguished completely, and she was alone on a balcony lit only by starlight.


	2. Toujours Pur

**DARK**  
Chapter II – "Toujours Pur"

* * *

**GRIMMAULD PLACE – **Ten Years Ago

_The tapestries had hung in the sitting rooms of the country manor and the London estate for centuries longer than she could remember. Seven, to be exact._

_Although she had never been allowed to see_ _either before now, she already recognized the threaded convolutions of thin silver lines and curled words: they'd weaved through her thoughts as plaited, intertwining shadow-figures since birth, twisting hundreds of years' worth of names that clamoured deep within her soul into half-remembered waking dreams with a trance-like, comforting precision. Spin your own destiny, they said, creeping spider-like across her mind, and she listened._

_She _knew_ who she was and what she was and where she came from; the tapestry has told her. She's never needed to question where she belongs, because the answer's always been there, engraved onto the wall as a living, breathing illustration of the ancestral power streaming underneath her skin with a throbbing vitality._

_She was six years old, and the tapestry loomed above her now in all its woven glory, stretching from floor to high panelled ceiling. There was her name-star, repeated many times throughout the centuries, but most recently at the very bottom, surrounded by kin. There was the motto, the touchstone, the mantra. _Toujours Pur.

"_What does it mean?" she asked at last, her voice low and constricted with excited, ill-restrained awe, and the tall, dark-haired man with his hand on her shoulder smiled._

"'_Always Pure.' C'est français, ma belle chérie. Surely your tutors have managed to impress a sufficient amount of French upon you by now to recognize it?" Cygnus chuckled. "Or perhaps you've been too preoccupied with sneaking off on my broomsticks during lessons to notice of late." He steered her toward the velvet couches near the emerald fireplace of the sitting room, where four immobile figures sat, looking back at her with identically appraising light grey eyes. She lifted her head high and tossed her mane of silky black hair. She'd proven to be one of them now, proven that her name belonged alongside theirs on the tree's shimmering branches, giving them a display of shatteringly destructive underage magic so impressive that the Black patriarch, the Heir, and his wife had all been called to bear witness to her formal induction into the Family._

"…_those who would try to seize it from you, this lineage Purer and more powerful than any other," the Family patriarch, Arcturus, was saying. She tried to focus on the satin timbre of his words, aware of her father, uncle, and aunt all watching, but she was too excited, feeling magic still brimming at her fingertips. She could do it again, she knew. She wouldn't even need to be angry this time—wouldn't even need any wood to channel the magic through—she could shatter all the crystal on the table, all the glass windows in the room, send the shards flying and—_

"_Do you understand, Bellatrix?" Her father was looking at her intently. She didn't know how to explain it to him—of course she did. She realized now that the Family was a concept she's understood all her life. She didn't need them to spell it out for her: all she needed was one look at that tapestry._

_So she nodded impatiently, and Aunt Walburga's hard eyes narrowed. "The child is arrogant and impertinent, Arcturus. She delights in being a terror as much as Sirius. Now that her magic has revealed itself, no doubt Cygnus will take it upon himself to—"_

_Arcturus raised one ring-covered hand, and she fell silent at once, clearly resentful. Orion rested his own hand on hers in warning as Arcturus spoke again. The serpent chandelier above them hissed softly. "You may continue the girl's training in the magical arts without direct supervision, Cygnus, observing the appropriate limits. Denying her the chance to develop her clearly extraordinary abilities at this age would no doubt be…" he raised one eyebrow in cold amusement, "…disastrous. I expect monthly reports on her progress, and we shall re-evaluate upon her entrance into Slytherin." He turned back to Walburga, seeming thoughtful. "You will teach her what it means to be a daughter of the House along with her sisters, of course. But ensure she spends as much time as possible with your eldest son."_

_Walburga sputtered, "I—Arcturus—the two of them together—entirely unmanageable! They already—you saw what happened today!"_

"_I did see," said Arcturus brusquely. "I saw a six-year-old girl-child channel magic through a broomstick into an explosive spell that destroyed an entire garden, and cause another child excruciating pain with no more than a glance. Your son was the catalyst for this display. I expect his own to be twice as impressive, and I want this girl kept around him to ensure it happens." He studied her, ignoring Walburga's grimace of distaste in addition to the fact that Sirius himself had been the unfortunate child on the other end of Bella's wrath. "The effect they have on each other is…volatile. Encourage this."_

_Orion, who had been watching the proceedings with a keen, knowing eye, nodded over Walburga's continued protest. "We shall, Father." He glanced at Bella poring over the tapestry again, having lost interest in the adults' conversation, and spoke carefully. "And in the future? Do you think…together…?"_

_Arcturus considered, harsh light from the candelabras sharpening his lined, regal face against the tapestry. "The line will be upheld," he said finally, reticent and unyielding. Walburga's mouth pressed into a thin line of displeasure. "For now, we watch, and we wait."_

_Outside in the ruined garden, the cadence of barking, childish laughter filled the air, and Bellatrix Black traced _Sirius _on the tapestry with vibrant, buzzing fingers._

* * *

**MANOIR NOIRE - **1973

"Andromeda, give that glass centrepiece to Narcissa before you drop it again. Narcissa, rather than continuing to stand there like a worthless doll, place it on the oak table by the entryway to the left. Bellatrix—_Bellatrix! What _in Salazar's name—that gown is obscene. Stop destroying the mistletoe and go back upstairs to change at once, or transfigure a suitable colour and neckline immediately. Roll your eyes again and I shall see that you spend the remainder of the evening alone in your bedchamber, girl. Why is the ice sculpture revolving counter-clockwise, I _expressly _ordered a clockwise rotation—this music is unacceptable—_where_ are these damnable elves? KREACHER!"

Walburga's screeching ringing in her ears, Bellatrix stalked up the stairs to the merciful quiet of her chamber and slammed the door. Preparations for tonight's grand holiday dinner party had consisted mainly of said screeching, with Cygnus, Orion, and Sirius entertaining Damien and Evan in the study and Druella fluttering helplessly about playing hostess with Damien's pale, wispy wife, Helene, in an attempt to avoid her sister-in-law's domineering wrath—and waiting for the rest of the guests to arrive in turn.

As the daughters of the House, Bella, Andy, and Cissy were expected to assist Walburga with last-minute domestic arrangements—and as she was not a _house elf_, Bellatrix was attempting to sabotage this enforced role at every opportunity, to her aunt's endless exasperation. Bookish little Regulus was nowhere to be found: hiding in the guest wing with one of his books, no doubt. For having to contend with Walburga year-round, Bellatrix could not blame him.

By the time she and her sisters had assembled in the drawing room, looking picturesque in appropriately demure white gowns and ready to be presented to the rest of the Family upon arrival, Bellatrix had had quite enough of Christmas (so much as the Blacks saw fit to call it such, vulgar Muggle holiday that it was. The enormous crystal tree in the corner, glittering with solid gold and silver baubles, was the manor's only overt nod to the occasion).

Narcissa was running over the guest list aloud, radiant in white and gold and sparkling with excitement—to Druella's constant pride, she would make the perfect Pureblood society witch someday, thriving on these absurd social occasions. "Mother expects Aunt Lucretia, of course, but do you think she'll bring her _husband_? Merlin, I hope not, he's so very _crass_, don't you think?" She lowered her voice delicately. "And you _know_ how he and Uncle Orion can be about politics." Andy gave a noncommittal _mmm_, clearly paying no attention, and Bellatrix sighed heavily, feeling itchy and irritable in the hideous white lace dress.

She burned to _do _something, _anything_, of excitement and importance. Sirius, the _Heir_, was no doubt as miserable discussing Family business in the study as she was here, trapped in leisurely, ladylike boredom. Rightful places indeed.

"Ah, but you know how Orion can be about _pastries_, in the right company," came a low, amused voice from the doorway. "I once witnessed he and your father attempt to enter into an Unbreakable Vow over the last lemon tart. Equally ridiculous and twice as dangerous as politics, I should think—though perhaps not quite so tiresome."

"Uncle Alphard!" Andy cried, rushing to embrace the smiling man who had appeared at the entrance to the drawing room, dressed in what appeared to be a bizarre cross between dress robes and a purple silk kimono. "We thought you were abroad!"

Alphard, as the eccentric younger brother of Cygnus and Walburga, had been the spare son and therefore unattached from Family responsibility, freeing him instead to pursue his various peculiar interests across the globe, using his share of the Family inheritance to travel constantly between his dozens of homes on the Continent. Cygnus, Orion, and Walburga occasionally discussed his latest exploits with derisive amusement—last Bella had heard, he was taking up obscure magizoology in Japan.

Alphard chuckled, spinning Andromeda around in a playful pirouette—she laughed delightedly. "Not even a 'Happy Christmas', darling?" Narcissa shot Bellatrix a discomfited sideways glance at the Muggle greeting. Alphard's calm grey eyes rested a moment on the magnificent tapestry enveloping the wall behind them, the slightest hint of irony tingeing his voice as he said affably, "No one better with whom to spend the holiday than Family." Tearing his eyes away from the tree, he smiled again, warmly, and studied them. "Walburga seems to have managed to tame you all into perfect Pureblood princesses." Bellatrix bristled a little at that, and he winked at her. "I remain unconvinced."

The stiff, formal atmosphere in the room shifted to one of lightness and laughter as Alphard summoned exotic gift after gift out of thin air, and each girl collapsed back onto the chaise lounge in appreciation—for Andy, a priceless wizards' chess set from India engraved with various magical creatures; for Cissy, a Parisian diamond bracelet laced with beauty charms; and for Bella, an enchanted Japanese battle sword covered in foreign runes.

"You spoil us, Uncle," demurred Narcissa, unable to wrench her eyes away from the sparkling jewels around her wrist.

"A privilege, my dear," said Alphard graciously. "With such lovely nieces—well, you might say _I'm_ the one being spoiled." He was wracked suddenly with a great, shaking cough. Andromeda stepped forward, worried, but he waved her away, rasping, "It's nothing, my dear. International Apparition often results in these troublesome illnesses, they pass soon enough, of no concern." Slightly paler but no worse, he passed around an impressively large silver tin of some strange foreign candy. "The best cure for any sickness. And what's a dinner party without a little chocolate beforehand to spoil the meal?"

Careful not to stain the white gowns, Bella and her sisters devoured the rare treat—taking secret delight in the thought of Druella's face at witnessing such a scene—as Alphard regaled them with stories of his most recent adventures and travels, culminating with an anecdote involving a fire-breathing chimaera accidentally conjured in a sacred shrine that had them all dissolving into fits of hilarity…broken only when Bellatrix looked up at the slim shadow suddenly darkening the doorway, laughter falling immediately into stony silence.

Sirius's handsome, sullen face was drawn and pale this morning, dark circles beneath his eyes marking last night's incident—Bella tightened, heat and desperate anger rising once more within her as she looked at him. "Why, hullo, Uncle," he said casually, leaning carelessly against the door frame with a small, still stunning smile, taking in the strewn-about presents and candies. "I _have _missed your particular style of degeneracy."

"Sirius, my dear fellow degenerate!" Alphard rose to clinch his nephew into a tight embrace, long-held affection tacit between them. "Still managing mischief, I presume?"

"Mischief is never entirely managed, Uncle," winced out Sirius, attempting a roguish grin that twisted instead into a pained grimace. Seeing it, Alphard released him, a concerned, questioning look on his face, shrewd eyes quickly finding the still-purple bruising covering the swath of discoloured chest peeking out above Sirius's ceremonial formal wear. Andy averted her own eyes, looking ill; Cissy shot Bella another sidelong glance.

"Oh, I see," murmured Alphard, a new edge to his voice as he said simply, "Blacks bruise easily, my boy, or so the saying goes." He placed a calm, steadying hand on Sirius's shoulder and looked once again to the great tapestry looming over all of them. "All that Pure blood runs thin underneath our skin." He pointed suddenly to a silvery name on the tree. "My aunt, Charis Lycoris—you share her middle name if not her temperament, Narcissa—took it upon herself to demonstrate this to your parents and I once or twice; to this day I don't think my right buttock has ever been the same." He squinted a little at the tapestry, and smiled tightly. "Ah yes, she married the equally charming Caspar Crouch; I believe their son now works under Damien in the Ministry."

Narcissa, who had perked up with interest at the mention of her own name and was now admiring the tapestry as well (clearly desperate to continue deflecting attention from Sirius, who was now glowering in silence, arms crossed) noted, "She had a sister, Callidora—and look, she was called Elladora as well, Bella Ella." Bellatrix rolled her eyes at the childhood nickname, ignoring Sirius's derisive snort.

"She had two sisters," said Alphard mildly, and Bella's eyes found the scorched burn mark between _Callidora _and _Charis _with slight interest.

The stories behind the scorches were rarely discussed, as blood-traitors were to be erased, not remembered, but she vividly recalled Grandfather Pollux—the fierce, frightening father of Cygnus, Walburga, and Alphard—visiting some years ago in a cold rage, entering this very sitting room and exiting a few minutes later with a smoking wand. _It is done, _he had hissed at Cygnus. _He shall no longer shame this Family. _When Bellatrix had snuck back in to look at the tapestry later that night, the name of Pollux's own brother, Marius, had disappeared—a stark brown burn mark in its place. She had never discovered what he had done to offend the Family enough to be disowned, but the chilling sight of that angry, freshly gaping hole had never left her memory.

Andromeda was looking intently now, too. She asked Alphard softly, "What was her name?"

"Cedrella Nymphadora," answered Alphard, still gazing steadily at the scorch mark. "Fascinating woman—odd, but fittingly so. She married a blood-traitor. A Weasley." Narcissa gasped out loud, horrified, and Bellatrix frowned, the idea of a Black mating with one of _them _twisting her stomach sickeningly.

They all stared at the tapestry in silence for a few taut moments—the rest of the unnamed burn marks throughout the centuries overlooking them ominously—before Sirius broke it to inform them tersely that he had been sent, in the first place, to fetch them for presentation.

The House of Black's holiday dinner party was set at last to begin.

* * *

**MANOIR NOIRE – **Eight Years Ago

_In the lush, ornate garden of Manoir Noire, a Dark sorceress was battling a brave prince attempting to rescue a beautiful maiden held captive by Muggles in an enchanted bower, and a small black-haired boy was screaming._

"_I don't want to be the Muggle again!" shrieked Regulus, tears threatening to spill on the tattered silk pillowcase being used as his makeshift costume._

"_Poor ickle baby Reggie." The wicked queen, wearing a ruby carcanet as a crown, cackled madly, swerving straight toward him on her broomstick with the tree branch serving as her magic staff held high._

_Regulus screamed and tried to run back toward the manor house, only to crash headlong into the bower, causing the imprisoned blonde damsel to topple over into a bush and begin to sob about her gown being ruined. The evil sorceress laughed harder. "Bella, stop! Siri, make her stop!"_

_The prince dismounted from his noble steed (the latest Cleansweep, a recent birthday present procured six months before it would hit stores) and lifted his overlarge knight's helmet to reveal a fine-featured eight-year-old boy, grinning madly. "Stop torturing the Muggles, Bella."_

"_I'm NOT a Muggle—"_

"_He said _make _me, Sir Witless!"_

_Sirius smiled wickedly as he mounted his broom again, accepting the challenge, and with one well-aimed swerve had looped around to swipe the ruby carcanet from her head and wave it tantalizingly in the air before her. Bellatrix's lips pressed into a thin line of concentration, no longer laughing. "Give it back."_

_Sirius leaned closer on the broom, readying it for flight. "_Make _me." She grinned, and the chase began._

_They soared over the garden, locked in aerial battle, overlooking the grounds of the manor from the sky with the perilous bordering Muggle village visible in the distance. By the time Bella had caught up to Sirius and wrestled the carcanet out of his hands, he had gotten hold of the tail end of her broom and was sending her spinning in a dizzying downward spiral. She knocked him off the Cleansweep with her staff in retaliation, and he fell on top of her, the two of them crashing toward earth together in a tangle of flailing limbs on a single failing broom—everyone was screaming, an adult voice was shouting—directly before the inevitable crushing impact, however, a feather-light cushion of air enveloped them, freezing them in the air mid-plunge. Bellatrix and Sirius looked at each other, stunned, and found that they could float through the air to the ground of their own volition, landing smoothly on their feet with the broom following shortly after._

_Sirius looked at her questioningly, breathing very hard. "Did I—?"_

_"Sirius Orion!" It was Orion, rushing toward them with Andromeda and their evaded tutor in tow, with Cygnus and Arcturus following close behind from where they had all apparently been observing the proceedings from afar. Sirius scowled, expecting the usual lecture on _the importance of magical education prior to Hogwarts _and _the expected behaviour of well-bred Pureblood children, _but the expression on Orion's face could not have been farther from angry disappointment (the same could not be said for the tutor, who looked rather strangled at discovering what four out of five of his prestigious pupils had gotten up to in lieu of his tutelage). "An impressive display, to be sure." He gave Sirius a rare, approving smile—he stared up at his father in bewilderment. "You are the Heir, after all."_

_Bellatrix sniffed indignantly. Of course no one would acknowledge her own role in ensuring her cousin's magical abilities—latent a year beyond _hers_—finally made an appearance, or the fact that she could have been _killed _in the process. She had done everything perfectly—leading them all in escaping their tutor, leaving Andy to fetch the elders, provoking Sirius to the point of dangerous stupidity—just as her father had asked, only for everyone to now fawn over _him_ and how _talented _he was. The injustice._

_Cygnus, however, had come up behind her and laid an appreciative hand on her shoulder. "Well done, Bellatrix. Shall we proceed with your duelling lessons indoors?"_

_They worked late into the afternoon—cast, twist, parry, turn, _again!_—until Bellatrix was exhausted and panting, covered in a sheen of sweat._

_"You're making excellent progress," Cygnus said approvingly, replacing her broken practice wand. "We'll start on knives, next, I think—an expert duelist always has weapons beyond wands at his disposal."_

_"Her," Bella corrected automatically. He looked at her, startled, and she clarified. "_Her_ disposal, Father."_

_Cygnus laughed sharply. "If _you_ are the 'her' we're speaking of, daughter, then yes."_

_She was silent as he healed her scrapes and bruises with his wand, thinking of Sirius, and his own father's elation. "Father, what happens now that Sirius's magic has shown?" she asked suddenly._

_Cygnus finished healing and removed his duelling gloves, saying calmly, "Your Uncle Orion will begin training him in fighting and enchantments, as I train you, and someday he will become Head of the Family, like your Grand Uncle."_

_Bella considered this with furrowed brows. "Can't _I _be Head of the Family? I'm older than Sirius, and better—"_

_He chuckled, and kissed the top of her hair with just a tinge of sadness. "No, my little warrior. You will marry a great wizard of another family, and give him powerful sons to be Heirs and Heads themselves. That is your path."_

_It didn't seem fun, or fair. "But I'm a _warrior_, Father! You told me!"_

_Cygnus Black's obsidian features—so like those of the daughter before him, the son he never had—were an expressionless mask as he led her out of the duelling room, closing the door behind them. "So I did, daughter, and so you are—but you're a woman first."_

* * *

**MANOIR NOIRE - **1973

Bellatrix had often thought, growing up, that the manor's airy living room was perhaps the room least suitable for actual _living_. The delicacy of its fragile, ancient furniture, the faint intimidation of its enormous golden-crest-carved ceiling, the light layer of dust overlaying each priceless heirloom lining the grand spiral staircase—all these things spoke more to a state room or war chamber than a cosy family meeting place. All very well, in the end, since manoeuvring through the calculating smiles and subtle slights being shot back and forth like hexes resembled nothing so much as navigating a battlefield.

Having escaped three of their dullest distant relatives, abandoning Narcissa to their droning and prying, Bella was attempting to sneak over to where Evan was languishing in clear distress with old Aunt Cassiopeia in the far corner when she was ambushed by Arcturus, appearing suddenly before her like a ghost in austere ceremonial robes.

"Bellatrix Elladora." Arcturus Black intoned authority in every low syllable. With his long white hair and sharp, rigid features, he was an imposing and even dangerous man at the height of his mental facilities: the star all the rest of them revolved around. Bella had been raised to fear the old man, as Orion, Cygnus, and Walburga clearly did, and had long ago gathered that as the Black patriarch, Arcturus held the most influence on society at large. He had pointedly retired from his former position as Senior Advisor to the Minister just last year, an incisive political statement against the Ministry's increasingly liberal doctrines and taken as such. It was said he had received an Order of Merlin First Class as enticement against further political action—Bellatrix wondered, not at all idly, how much authority he continued to wield in secret.

She fell immediately into her most flawless curtsy, feeling his silver eyes steadily appraise her. "_Toujours pur_, Grand Uncle."

"_Toujours pur_, child," he said quietly. "Cygnus tells me you continue to excel in your studies and remain the pride of our Family."

Bellatrix cast her eyes downward in a shaky impression of unassuming modesty to hide their widened surprise. Was last night's screaming match so easily forgotten? "I am pleased he thinks so," she murmured. "I know my duties to the House, and will continue to excel at them, although—" she raised her eyes now, brazenly, to meet his own, and held his gaze in brave defiance—"I am not a son."

He studied her a long moment in stony silence before allowing the smallest of smiles, and Bellatrix exhaled. "And more's the pity for the House of Black. Tell me, then, my insolent daughter—how long can a falling star chart a wayward path across the sky?"

She followed his gaze to where Sirius leaned elegantly against the far wall alone, having placed as much distance as possible between him and the glittering, prattling guests. He was casting a bitter, longing look out the gold-paned window; perhaps feeling her eyes on him now, he glanced up. She quickly looked away again, her expression hardening. "So long as the surrounding stars allow it, sir."

"Or perhaps," said Arcturus softly, "until it crashes and burns." Grandfather Pollux approached and whispered urgently into Arcturus's ear, looking down his patrician nose at Bella with long-suffering disdain but otherwise refusing to acknowledge her. Arcturus nodded with a tight-lipped smile. "Of course, Pollux. It appears I am called elsewhere, daughter—shine brightly for us all."

Bellatrix watched their velvet-clad backs retreat into the study, where she glimpsed Orion and Cygnus waiting solemnly inside, before hurrying over to Evan at last. With a hasty apology to Cassiopeia, still blathering on about some ancient society scandal, she dragged him quickly up the spiral staircase and into a side chamber, casting a quick illegal noise-muffling spell and locking the door. "The meal's about to begin, we don't have much time—"

Evan sighed, brushing back his golden hair in a silver-rimmed mirror. "While I'm grateful for the timely rescue from one of your various unbearable relatives, Bella, Rodolphus has already told me everything."

"That bastard!" she exclaimed indignantly. "I told him I would do it!"

He rolled his eyes. "The identity of the messenger hardly matters. Yes, I understand the plan—perform some horrifying experimental curse on an unsuspecting Mudblood, naturally—and yes, I'm in." He added under his breath in an airy, long-suffering sigh, "As if I have a choice."

Bellatrix, though curious as to what friendly blackmail Rodolphus had implemented, ignored this. "Excellent, because this is where your father comes in." He looked at her through the mirror in alarmed surprise, and she held up a hand, exasperated. "Oh, _control _yourself, Evan, Daddy will never know. We just need a few of those Ministry resources—if you can ensure that an Auror or two just so happens to be visiting Hogwarts on the day of the incident…and if the day of the incident just so happens to be Walpurgis Night…" She trailed off significantly, and he turned slowly in dawning comprehension.

"Bella, they'll think it's a terrorist attack!"

She grinned, thrilled to find him catching on so quickly. "Exactly! We'll have to plant a few signs, of course, pointing to the underground Pureblood separatists or even the Knights, if we can, but they'll never suspect underage _students_ to be capable—"

"Are you _mad_?"

She stopped, irked. "What?"

He stared at her in disbelief. "Playing with the Dark Arts at school might be a game for us, but what's happening inside the Ministry isn't. My father's department is _hunting_blood purists, who are _killing _Muggles! If they think any of the radical factions have begun to target Mudbloods as well…" His cornflower eyes were huge, horrified. "Bella, this could escalate into a full-scale civil war." She said nothing, looking at him intently, and he groaned, understanding. "Which you realize. Of course."

"Listen to me, cousin." She made to grab his arms; he twisted away and paced the chamber, agitated. "Evan, _listen_! This is our time! We have a chance to prove ourselves, to make an actual change in this world, far beyond what our parents, or any generation before us, ever dared to dream of!" She paused, breathing hard, all her fury at Sirius channelled into a passion far beyond either of them, or any nighttime quarrel. _Greater things. _"Like it or not, a war is coming," she finished, low and insistent. "And now is the time to choose a side."

With the soft click of an expertly cast _alohomora, _the door creaked open suddenly, and Bella and Evan whirled around to find Damien Rosier at the entry, smiling pleasantly in his customary immaculate white. "Showing Evan around the manor? How thoughtful of you, Bellatrix. Druella has created an impeccable hostess."

Evan flushed, stammering, "F-Father, I—"

"I try, Uncle Damien," Bellatrix cut in sweetly, gesturing vaguely to the large glass display in the corner. "Evan _was _hesitant to see our newly acquired Peruvian music boxes, but I insisted. While I'm certain the Rosier estate has its own impressive collection of Dark objects, ours is truly unparalleled."

"I must pretend not to have heard any of that." Damien arched a pale eyebrow, amused. "I understand the need to lock the door, then, to protect such rare objects from curious guests…but in the future, perhaps, you'll want to store your music boxes in a room unhindered by anti-eavesdropping jinxes. They do inhibit the sound."

Evan looked to Bella in rising panic, and her eyes narrowed. "Why, Uncle, I haven't the slightest idea what you mean."

Damien gave a silky smile, toasting them with a crystal charmed champagne glass. "Everyone in this Family has their secrets; I'll not begrudge you yours." She shot him a tight, venomous smile of her own and made to sweep out of the room—Evan, she knew, would say nothing. "But Bella, dearest?" She half-turned, catching her breath. "No secret worth keeping remains secret for long. Remember this."

Bellatrix glanced back at the two Rosier men: one anxious, the other infuriatingly unreadable. Keeping her own expression blank and impassive, she swept into a low, parting curtsy. "Duly noted, Uncle. If you'll excuse me, I'm needed downstairs."

The Head of Magical Law Enforcement watched her leave in silence, a curious, triumphant grin dancing swiftly across his face.

* * *

**DEVONSHIRE – **Six Years Ago

_Dozens of the wealthiest and most esteemed members of Pureblood society were dancing and twirling across the Greengrass' grand ballroom in a blur of silk and colour—and high above, two small figures in war paint were sneaking along an enormous tiered balcony, holding battered brooms._

_"Where's the rest of our team?" hissed the taller of the two, stormy grey eyes sweeping the ballroom below._

_"No idea," came the other's uncaring reply. "Caught by the house elves, probably. They can't be too happy after what we threw at them."_

_The first figure laughed, a little too loudly. "I knew that bag of bulbadox powder would come in handy someday. They'll be breaking out in boils for weeks." She held up a smooth goat's gallbladder and smiled wickedly. "Even if we are going it alone now, we still have the Dom. If we make it back to the fire barrels while Lestrange's team is off dealing with Andy's gnome distraction, we win."_

_Her partner-in-crime snorted. "This is without a doubt the most illegal game of Aingingein in the history of the world, Bella."_

_"Would you prefer to spend this ball sitting around in the nursery with the rest of the _children_, Sirius?"_

_He rolled his eyes. "Course not. Just pointing out the questionable legality of your methods, infallible Team Captain."_

_Bella laughed. "That's how we do things in Slytherin House, little co-Captain. You'll want to get used to it."_

_The younger boy made a deeply wounded expression. "I'm shocked and offended that you'd even call my rule-breaking record into question. It's like you don't know me at all."_

_She mussed his hair affectionately; he made a face. "I know you well enough to know you'll make the perfect Slytherin." Her face lit up, distracted from the game entirely, now, thinking of it. "Sirius, you can't even imagine, how amazing it is, even with prats like Lestrange and Malfoy, it's all of our childhood stories come true—just wait. Next year we'll rule the House together: you and me and Andy. "_

_Sirius looked away, suddenly on edge. "That's what everyone wants."_

_"Exactly!" she thrilled, then paused, considering. "Well, everyone but Rodolphus Lestrange, probably. To have not one, but _three_ Blacks who hate him to contend with—"_

_"But what if I'm not?" interrupted Sirius with surprising intensity. "What if the Hat _doesn't _put me in Slytherin with you and Andy? What if—"_

_"Don't be ridiculous," Bella cut in quickly, the thought impossible to even contemplate. He was her fellow mischief-maker, her companion in trouble making—the _Heir_. They had grown up hearing the same stories—tales of the great Salazar Slytherin and his own Heir, foretold in the old books to save them all, of Purity triumphing over filth, of the powerful Dark forces that were their inheritance. "You're a Black."_

_"Right," said Sirius. They studied each other, suddenly tense, before he grinned again. "Let's light some barrels on fire."_

_She smiled, relieved. "Let's."_

_They slid down the staircase connecting to the balcony in full view of the ballroom, ignoring the exclamations of several scandalized guests, and flew out an open window into the garden beyond, where the world's most illegal game of Aingingein awaited._

_And they won._

* * *

**MANOIR NOIRE – **1973

The splendid opulence of the manor's dining hall was on full display tonight as house elves levitated course after course of the finest foods onto the grand table, Arcturus seated at one end—with Orion and Sirius at either side of him—and Pollux with his children at the other.

Bellatrix had been placed firmly in the middle of the arrangement, seated between Druella and Helene Rosier and directly across from the Prewetts. She tried her best to be charming between bites of stuffed pheasant as Druella and Helene graciously discussed recent society gossip, straining to hear the much more interesting dialogues on finances and history taking place at either end of the table amid the clatter of silverware and golden goblets.

"Bellatrix," came the warm, steady voice of Orion's younger sister Lucretia, "how are your N.E.W.T.S., going, darling?"

Bella looked to her gratefully. Hogwarts, while not the most stimulating of topics, was far easier to make well-mannered banter out of than Elena Edgecombe's latest affair. Bellatrix had always somewhat liked Aunt Lucretia, finding her much less overbearing than her sister-in-law Walburga, who loathed her—over the years, Lucretia had often interrupted Walburga's lessons on becoming a 'proper Black lady' with snide, entertaining comments, which Narcissa always found appalling. The Family had seen comparatively little of her since her marriage to Ignatius Prewett some years prior, however—while the Prewett family was still far too esteemed in society to be accused of being blood-traitors, they had come down largely on the side of the liberal Mugglelovers in recent political affairs, leaving Lucretia, Bella presumed, in the unenviable position of balancing her family ties.

"Quite well, thank you," she responded courteously. "I'm taking six this year—Defence, Charms, Transfiguration, Potions, Astronomy, and Ancient Runes."

"No Muggle Studies?" asked Ignatius mildly. Druella and Helene exchanged astonished looks at the clear provocation, as Lucretia winced and glanced nervously at Orion, who appeared not to have heard.

Bellatrix frowned, saying tersely, "Of course not. Isn't it enough to be forced to share space with them at school; must we have the details of their absurd lifestyles forced upon us as well? Only under Albus Dumbledore would such a class even _exist_—"

Druella nodded, placing a dignified hand on Bella's own and saying firmly, "We would never subject our daughters to such a thing, Ignatius."

He raised his thick red eyebrows, ignoring Lucretia's warning murmurs in his ear. "Is that so? You would have them raised in ignorance to the larger world, locked away in their father's magical manor, hating what they do not understand?"

Bellatrix broke in angrily, "I understand the perversions that are Muggles and their contamination of the wizarding bloodstream perfectly."

He looked at her with something she recognized, ludicrously, as pity. "I see you are well-indoctrinated in the convictions of your House, child."

Damien, seated on the other side of his wife and oddly quiet until now, spoke, and Ignatius—who, Bella remembered now, had a job at the Ministry—fell silent. "Am I to understand you do not share these convictions, Ignatius?"

He smiled thinly. "I find it fascinating that _you_ presumably do, Rosier, pristine protector of the peace that you are."

Damien's eyes went cold, and Helene stiffened. "Careful whose ideologies you presume, Prewett. I am many different things, but a forgiving man is not one of them."

"Come," said Cygnus evenly into the resulting sharp silence, and Bellatrix realized with a jolt that the rest of the table had fallen silent over the course of the argument. "Let's not spoil polite conversation with ugly politics."

"Ugly, Cygnus?" Walburga snapped. "What's ugly are the foul creatures spoiling polite _society._"

"Precisely," Pollux concurred loudly, slamming a fist on the table and nodding in approval at his daughter. "The irony is quite hideous, is it not? To be cast into hiding from these intolerant monsters who fear powers they neither have nor understand but nonetheless attempt to steal—it is an abomination!" There was a general murmur of assent throughout the table, the company's genteel reserve rapidly decaying; seeing it, Pollux persisted, "Next we'll be living among all manner of vile beasts—giants, vampires, werewolves, even!"

At the far end of the table, Sirius gave a loud, angry scoff. Orion glared in warning, and Bellatrix went rigid, fearful of what Sirius might say.

"In theory," Walburga countered ruthlessly, paying her son no mind, "they must be done away with entirely—Muggles and half-breeds alike—if a genetic line that's taken thousands of years to establish is to be preserved."

Ignatius, gone red as his hair, interjected heatedly, "Are you advocating genocide, madam?" The table hushed again, Druella letting out a small gasp at the word—it was one to be whispered about behind closed doors, not shouted out at supper. Lucretia's desperate pleas unheeded, Prewett rushed on, "You come dangerously close to supporting the extreme dealings of fanatics like the man calling himself Lord Voldemort with that line of reasoning!"

"Then perhaps he has the right idea!" shouted Pollux. Orion and Cygnus exchanged a strange, significant look across the table but did not speak. "I am unclear as to why you are sitting at this Family's table if you disagree."

"Pollux." Arcturus had spoken—all heated declarations fell abruptly silent. The Head of the Black Family cleared his throat softly. "We are all Family here. No one is in favour of blood corruption or of bloodshed."

"No!" It was Sirius. Bella watched, dismayed, as he stood up so violently that his ornate oak chair toppled over. He was nearly vibrating with long-restrained fury as he looked around at them all, pointing a shaking, accusatory finger at Arcturus. "You're not condemning the idea of racial genocide at all, you're as bigoted as the rest of them!"

Orion stood as well, commanding in a low, dangerous voice, "Sit down, Sirius. You will not embarrass this Family."

Sirius gave a caustic, bitter snort. "Oh, that's a laugh, _Dad_. Do you hear yourselves? Going on about the purification of the wizarding race and _killing half-breeds_, it's disgusting—"

"Sirius, you _will be silent!_" screamed Walburga amidst the table's exclamations at the unruly Heir's outburst, but he shouted back, "NO! I will _not _be silent anymore! I've had enough of this, of all of this—of all of _you_—"

He stormed out of the dining hall and into the foyer, heading for the doors—Orion and Arcturus followed close behind, the resulting shouting match clearly audible to those still seated, stunned, at the table.

"Walk out of those doors now and you are never setting foot in this House again, boy! Grimmauld Place will be closed to you forever—"

A burst of mad, barking laughter. "I can't imagine a better Christmas gift!"

"You would throw away your birthright!"

"Means nothing to me! I'd give anything to be free of it, of this entire sodding Family!"

"Think very carefully about what you're doing, Sirius." Alphard, too, had risen to join them at the entrance and was speaking to his favourite nephew in low, measured tones. "If you leave now, there is no turning back."

Silence, for a long, breathless moment—and then the doors slammed shut with resounding, earth-shattering finality.

Walburga rushed to the foyer and let out a piercing, sobbing scream.

Sirius was gone.

* * *

**HOGWARTS – **Five Years Ago

"_Black, Sirius!"_

_Bella watched as he looked up mid-laugh from where he was lounging at the first year table and got smoothly to his feet, strolling to the stool with a languid carelessness that made it very clear he loved the fact that he had the undivided attention of a thousand waiting eyes._

_Bellatrix shifted irritably._

_He had gone missing on the train, never showing up to the elite compartment unofficially designated for first-year Purebloods likely to be sorted into Slytherin—in other words, all of his childhood companions. Andy had gone searching for him and had eventually discovered him laughing with James Potter in an otherwise empty compartment, disregarding proper company entirely. Not the best start to his Hogwarts career, to say the least. He claimed to have gotten lost, and—eager to present a united front as always—Bellatrix had promised not to mention the incident to Walburga. It was troubling nonetheless._

_McGonagall unceremoniously placed the Hat on his silky black hair and Bellatrix suddenly found her throat gone dry, constricted with a nervousness she didn't know she felt._

_Several long, tense seconds passed, each one weighing more and more powerfully, dragging all kinds of unnamed fears and truths from the depths of her mind. She saw Andromeda in her new, pressed Slytherin tie giving her a worried look from the corner of her eye but could not possibly look away from Sirius, on that damned stool, in that damned Hat. Panic rose in a wave of cold nausea—it shouldn't take this long, it had never taken this long—people were starting to whisper—what was there_ possibly_ to discuss—he's a Black, he's a_ Black_, he's a—_

"_GRYFFINDOR!"_

_She couldn't hear the gasps; all of the air in the Hall was sucked out in a silent, suffocating rush as she inhaled, Andy's fingernails digging into her arm hard enough to draw blood, and the boy on the stool reached up to remove the Hat so slowly he might have been Petrified. When the tattered, floppy hood lifted at last, she was the first person he looked for._

_Their grey eyes met for a long, trembling moment, wide with mutual disbelief—and then the corners of Sirius's mouth tilted upwards into a slow, dazzling smile._

* * *

**GRIMMAULD PLACE - **1973

With the elders of the Family conferring in private after the guests had filed out following the dramatic scene, the three sisters and the new Heir were under strict orders to remain sequestered in the Grimmauld Place sitting room, where the fiery, sizzling hole in the tapestry that had been Sirius's name until Walburga tearfully attacked it with her wand burned and singed away. The incident would doubtlessly be on the lips of everyone in wizarding high society within a day.

Bella summoned her cloak.

"Where are you going?" asked Cissy dully, eyes haunted. Andromeda looked up, unnaturally grim—she knew the answer.

"I'll be back at the manor," replied Bellatrix tightly, fleeing toward to door, unable to look at them all. "You can let them know I went to bed."

"Bella?" Regulus was sitting alone an overlarge armchair, looking lost and shocked and very, very young. He gave shaky, desperate nod. "Please try. Tell him—tell him—" His small voice cracked slightly, and Bellatrix nodded, understanding.

"I will, Reg." She turned her back on the tapestry and left the room.

Heightened emotion and an only-recently-awarded Apparition license left her dizzy and light-headed when she arrived at the Potters' brick doorstep in the midst of the unpleasant wintery, nighttime cheerfulness of Godric's Hollow, but she'd managed not to splinch herself nonetheless. The door opened before she had a chance to collect herself, revealing her panting and shaky at the end of James Potter's wand.

He groaned, seeing her, and lowered it. "Showing up on other people's holiday doorsteps uninvited is getting to be a thing with you Blacks."

"Where is he, Potter?"

James gave a wide, arrogant smile—she didn't miss the veiled uneasiness beneath it, or that his hand tightened round his wand. "Give it up, Black. He's not going back to that madhouse, not ever, so—"

"It's alright, Prongs."

Sirius had appeared behind his friend, hands resting casually in his coat pockets, still dressed in his Black ceremonial robes and looking paler than she'd ever seen him. He had a searing, determined look on his face. Her eyes narrowed.

"No, it's bloody not alright, Pads, she's—"

"James." Sirius broke away from Bella's iron gaze to meet Potter's, communicating silently. "I'll be fine."

The two boys stared at each other a long moment until a finite point of understanding was reached between them, and then James gave a loud, long-suffering sigh and spun on his heel back into the house, muttering about insane, flea-brained friends and their evil bitch cousins.

Sirius stepped outside and shut the door.

Bellatrix immediately shoved him into it.

"How could you?" she nearly screamed, trembling with resurfaced rage, pummelling him with furious fists.

He grabbed her arms and held them at her side—her eyes stung with angry, helpless tears, and she hated him—truly, solely _hated _him—for the very first time. "This isn't about you, Bella," said Sirius, seemingly unable to look at her. "I don't want to hurt you. I don't want to hate you."

"Then don't!" she pleaded, struggling against him. "Come home, Sirius, it's not too late, they'll still—"

"That hell was never a home for me!" he barked, and she stopped, stunned. "It's done! I won't be their Heir, their pawn—they have Mummy's little lapdog for that now, the son they've always wanted—"

"Regulus is devastated," she said quietly. "You're his _brother_, Sirius, and you're abandoning him! Do you even _care_ what you've done to him, to all of us—to _me—_"

"Spare me," he scoffed, eyes blazing. "You're just like the rest of them, spouting off their Pureblood mania—"

"I'm just like _you_, Sirius! Why can't you see?" She ceased struggling and pressed herself closer instead, the magical current running through each of their bodies connecting and amplifying with contact. He arched away into the door, aghast. "We're both rebels, radicals, we always have been. There is weakness, _madness_ in this Family; they're not strong enough to be what we are. _They need us_. We share the same blood—I know it speaks to you still—"

"I've never heard blood say anything, Bella," he said harshly, barking out a laugh that sounded less flippant than hopeless.

"You're a _traitor_ to the Family name and you have lost the right to call me that!" She reached up to hit him smartly across the face; he seized her hand again, gripping it hard enough to bruise.

"I've lost all sorts of rights tonight, or haven't you been paying attention?"

They glared at each other, mirror images of anger and frustration, faces so close they might have been touching, before Bellatrix shoved apart and backed slowly away from the Potter house, leaving him standing alone on the doorstep.

"No bonds of magic or of nature run thicker than those of blood, cousin. You are the blood in my veins—however far you run, you'll never escape that. Escape me."

His eyes were the shade of the wet, grey sky, completely devoid of colour. She wondered, for an instant, what happened to the laughing little boy who never took anything seriously and thought he owned the world.

"Goodbye, Bella."

Any reply she might have made was lost to the wind as she turned and spun, reeling forward into darkness.

* * *

**HOGWARTS – **Two Years Ago

_"Losing a Quidditch wager has you this on edge, does it? Not used to losing, Black? Perhaps you should become accustomed—"_

_"You are insufferable, you atrocious, arrogant prat—"_

_"_Someone _needs to teach you a lesson—"_

_"How I've managed to endure four years of sharing a House with _you_ I'll never know—"_

_"Bloody psychotic bitch is what you are, has anyone ever told you—"_

_"Yes, we all know what sort of girls _you _prefer, Lestrange, go find one of your cheap brainless whores—"_

_"The sort that aren't maddening harpies, you mean, and with bigger tits—"_

"_Do you WANT_ _me to hex you into oblivion, would you LIKE that, you sick—"_

"_Did I touch a nerve? Better than touching those doxy bites you call br—"_

_Bellatrix's slap reverberated loudly throughout the empty, cloistered corridor she and her most hated housemate had somehow become sequestered in during yet another shouting spat between classes. Rodolphus Lestrange hissed softly and glared at her a long, dangerous moment in livid incredulity—dusky skin rapidly going scarlet—before the instantaneous uproar began again._

_"Strike me again and I'll—"_

_"Oh, you'll _what, _Lestrange? You'll _what_? You'll never dare touch me, and you'll get far more than a slap—"_

_"Don't _push _me, you impossible bitch, I swear—"_

_"You've always been a pathetic, egotistical prick vastly overcompensating for what must fittingly be the world's smallest co—"_

_His slap was lighter than hers had been, but it still sent her staggering back into the hard stone wall, gasping. She stared at him with wide, furious eyes, cheek burning, and something snapped. In an incensed, shuddering second—it was impossible, afterward, to say who had moved first, and each would claim it was the other forever after—they had closed the shrinking gap between them in a single forceful step and were kissing with enough violent ferocity to draw blood._

_His mouth was smooth and firm against her own as she slid her tongue over his lower lip and he sucked at hers, one hand twisting at the nape of her neck to pull tight against her hair, sending shooting tendrils of pain down her scalp, and the other reaching up to flick at a hardened nipple beneath her crisp white uniform blouse—with a sharp intake of breath, Bellatrix found her body involuntarily curving into his. "You have _spectacular_ breasts," he groaned into her ear, biting at the lobe. "It's entirely distracting."_

_Heady with desire and enraged triumph, she shoved him up against the wall and forced herself tight against him, biting at his neck until he gasped. The curve of something long and hard pressed urgently against her stomach—she arched a brow. "Not so small after all," she breathed against the hollow of his neck; he smirked, hand moving swiftly up the pale expanse of leg between her socks and skirt. "I must admit I wondered."_

_Their lips met again in a deep, forceful kiss before Rodolphus pulled back suddenly, releasing her in a heavy thrust. "What are we doing?" he spat out. "I loathe you."_

"_Oh, I despise you entirely," Bellatrix agreed fervently. "But so long as we're discussing lost wagers…" She raked her nails underneath his shirt and across his chest, red welts forming in their wake—he closed his eyes, releasing a low, shuddering breath. "…at least half of Slytherin House has had bets placed on how long it would take for this to happen since our second year. I believe Lucius Malfoy was among those who swore galleons we'd fight against each other to our deaths."_

_Rodolphus's icy blue eyes glinted with cold amusement as he pressed himself hard against her once more. "I could never turn down an opportunity to prove Lucius Malfoy wrong."_

_Bella smirked. "Together, we'll destroy him."_

"_We'll destroy them all."_

"_Have you wanted me for so long, then?" she inquired wickedly, grabbing his tie to pull him closer for another vicious kiss and tasting blood._

_Lifting her up against the wall and trailing warm, calloused fingers up her thigh, he growled, "Everyone wants you."_

"_Even you."_

"_Especially me."_

_She laughed softly against the hollow of his throat, already imagining the reactions of the rest of Slytherin House when they discovered that Bellatrix Black had managed not only to tame her most hated adversary, but to whip him into a frenzy of lust and passion as well. No doubt he was nurturing a similar line of thought—this was certainly a mutually beneficial and _most _fortuitous arrangement._

_The first opportunity to be obnoxiously public about their unconventional truce came later that night at Duelling Club, where they shocked everyone by not only choosing each other as duelling partners rather than opponents, but by topping easy victory over an astonished Malfoy and Macnair with a long, impassioned kiss. Ignoring Lucius's sneer, Bella released Rodolphus and turned to the rest of the watching students, beaming triumphantly. "Who's next?"_

"_Me, of course," came a loud, insolent voice from the back, and Sirius stepped forward onto the stage through a parting, suddenly hushed crowd of onlookers, loosening his tie with studied casualness. The attendees of Hogwarts Duelling Club meetings had long ago learnt that when the two eldest Black cousins duelled, it was a show to end all others._

_Bellatrix mirrored his challenging grin and gave an exaggerated bow. "I would expect no one less, Gryffindor."_

"_Just the two of us, then," said Sirius, winking roguishly at Rodolphus, who raised a dubious brow but backed off the stage, in position as her second. "For old time's sake." He flung a rapid hex at Bella, and the duel began._

_They fell quickly into their familiar patterns, acquired from years of private training and practice: alternating dizzyingly between offense and defence, Sirius favouring the showmanship of bright, flashing spells and Bellatrix preferring the more subtle drama of quick, directly efficient onslaughts, each knowing the other's style too well to do any real damage but delighting nonetheless in attempting to outdo each other in creating the most impressive, unpredictable spectacle possible. They both relished the heat of battle too much to notice anyone else in the midst of it, their pale, aristocratic faces twisted into identical flushed expressions of manic, focused delight lit up by gleaming jets of colour._

"_Lestrange, Bella, truly?" Sirius dodged Bellatrix's blasting curse in a single graceful swerve and shot back a stunning spell, which she deflected with an automatic shield. "How desperately revolting of you."_

"_What, are you jealous?" she taunted, eyes flashing in the glare of their spellwork, daring him to say yes, daring him further to say _no_. She was unsure which would be more infuriating._

_Sirius's eyes widened hugely—during which time Bellatrix managed to knock him backwards with a jolting non-verbal incantation—before he gave a loud, too-sharp laugh, recovering his balance. "Hardly—pathetic, egotistical pricks aren't really my type."_

_She bridled at the phrase—it was irritating, if unsurprising, to hear him echo her own frequent assessment so impeccably—and sent a stinging jinx flying toward him with unnecessary ferocity. "You mustn't tell lies, darling, it's unbecoming. I'm sure James Potter is a perfectly agreeable shag."_

_"He'll appreciate that sentiment," said Sirius seriously, performing a perfect recovery jump and casting an explosive curse in the process that sent Bella leaping backward, unprepared—a first-year girl in their rapt audience was squealing gleefully._

_"Come on, little cousin," seethed Bellatrix, preparing to counter-attack. "You can do better—" He took advantage of her momentary verbal distraction to ensure his Disarming Charm hit her square in the chest, sending her sprawling, wandless, and ending the duel. The room burst into deafening applause._

_"Oh, I'm aware," Sirius retorted, brushing long black hair out of glittering eyes as she glared at him. "But are you?"_

_He had never beaten her before._

_She realized suddenly, with a slow, lurching feeling in her stomach, that she'd let him._

_But she did not look back as she left the room on Rodolphus's arm, and Sirius did not stop her._

* * *

**MANOIR NOIRE - **1973

Andromeda was waiting for her back at the manor, running to meet her as she collapsed off a shaky Apparition landing and enveloping her tightly in her arms without questioning.

Manoir Noire was quiet, empty now—barren—though the scents of its bustling dinner party just a few hours prior lingered in the air. All was dark with not a single candelabra lit. The ancestral portraits lining the lofty foyer seemed to be in mourning; dressed all in black and fading into shadows, they spoke not a word to the two girls walking slowly toward the staircase in a sort of funeral procession, merely gazing down upon them in silent, solemn sorrow.

Narcissa met them at the door to her chamber, an apparition in pale blue to match sad eyes. "We'll sleep in the same room tonight," she murmured, leading her sisters in and gently closing the door behind them. The three of them curled up in Cissy's spacious bed, Andy's fingers steady on her eldest sister's heaving back.

"He's gone," choked out Bellatrix, voice sounding harsh and ragged to her ears. "He's not coming back."

"_Shh_," Andy whispered, soothing. "Sleep for now, Bella. Just sleep."

But it was she and Narcissa who drifted into slumber, leaving Bellatrix alone in wakeful misery, glowering out at the glossy black sky.

The bird landed so swiftly and so silently on the open windowsill that she thought it might have been a dream, at first, but no—it stared at her with unblinking intensity, a huge black owl with eerily luminous yellow eyes. In its dark beak was an envelope.

_Sirius._

She was at the window in a flash, and the great bird flew off in a cold, dark blur, leaving the plain white envelope behind. Bella seized it, ripping it open immediately to reveal a small, ordinary slip of paper. _Bella_, it read, in an elegant, unfamiliar stroke nothing like Sirius's impatient scrawl. Hardly daring to breathe, wanting to scream in disappointment, she skimmed the rest:

_At stroke of twelve, proceed to four  
SEPARATE HERE NOW bequeaths a door  
Reflect the soul and you may pass  
beneath the gold and through the glass  
But learn your art by second hour  
or by the moon they will devour_

The words signified nothing. A puzzle, then, a game, a joke—Rodolphus toying with her, or perhaps Lucius—either way, it was not Sirius, begging for forgiveness, coming home.

Resisting the urge to tear it into pieces with great effort, Bellatrix placed the mysterious, unsigned note into her pocket and climbed carefully back into bed between sleeping sisters—the last two people in the entire world who would never betray or abandon her, the only ones she could trust, now.

Her nightmares, when sleep claimed her at last, were rife with stars bursting into supernovas, casting stellar substance across the celestial sphere in a laughing, dazzling explosion of light and dark and bright grey eyes.


	3. Scandals and Secrets

**DARK**  
Chapter III – "Scandals and Secrets"

* * *

**ENGLAND – **January 1974

As Walburga was still too distraught to leave her chambers (where she remained sequestered with a smugly doting Kreacher, sobbing and screeching and by all accounts demolishing the Family's storage of firewhiskey) and Orion was off with Arcturus in Devonshire for the time being, salvaging what remained of the Family's reputation, it fell to Druella and Cygnus to send the new Heir back to Hogwarts with their daughters.

Regulus arrived by Floo alone late Sunday afternoon, sallow skin red and blotchy beneath swollen eyes, attempting a shaky smile that Bella suspected was intended to be reassuring but only came off rather strangled. As he, Andy, and Cissy said their formal goodbyes to Druella and gathered their school trunks in preparation, Bellatrix felt Cygnus lay a solemn hand on her shoulder, drawing her aside.

She looked up, blank and expressionless. The strain of the past two days was measurable on his face, the usual lines and greys appearing more harrowing than distinguished. Her own mouth felt dry, her voice raspy from so much recent shouting and crying. "Yes, Father?"

Cygnus wasn't looking at her, his eyes fixed on a point beyond and slightly to her left. On Regulus. "The situation at school may be…delicate, at first," he began, voice measured and lowered so that only she could hear. "Do not allow yourself to be distracted or provoked by whatever whispers or headlines you may hear. You are a Black; you are strong, you are noble, you are _better_; and you will hold your head above it all to set an example for your sisters and cousin. Nothing has changed except for the Heir."

_Except for that._

She nodded numbly. Her father tore his eyes away from Regulus to look at her, an uncommon compassion in his gaze as he added, softer, "He was never worthy of you, daughter." She opened her mouth uncertainly, unsure how to respond, but with a final press to her shoulder Cygnus had moved to rejoin the group, and she followed, not knowing what else to do.

Druella gave her a perfunctory embrace, stiff and scented strongly of rosemary, before clutching at Narcissa again, frantically smoothing down her golden hair and murmuring reassurances in her ear. Bellatrix picked up her trunk with one hand and reached for Andy's with the other—her sister gave a comforting squeeze and Bella squeezed back automatically.

Andromeda smiled over at Reggie, who was looking at the emerald flames in the huge black marble fireplace as if they were the very conflagrations of hell. "Come on, Reg. The sooner we're back in the common room the sooner I can crush you at Exploding Snap for the sixth thousandth time—then and _only_ then will things really be back to normal around here."

"Unlikely," muttered Regulus, unsmiling, but Bella thought he looked a little less constricted in spite of himself, and had never been more grateful for Andy—it took effort enough to keep herself standing without having to coddle Reggie.

When Cissy had disentangled herself from Druella's tearful grip and linked arms with the rest of them, Cygnus tossed the silver-green Floo powder into the waiting fireplace. Steeling themselves, the remaining Black children walked very determinedly into the flames together as one, and the cool, dark elegance of the manor's sitting room abruptly gave way to a vibrant, spinning whirlwind of colour.

* * *

The hush that swept over the Great Hall upon the entrance of the Black sisters that night, while not entirely unexpected, was no less overwhelming.

Their pre-arranged early Floo arrival directly into Slughorn's office some hours prior had been simple enough, if irritating—the simpering fool had bowed excessively, jowls shaking, and hastened to assure the four of them of his sympathy and understanding: what a shame the entire situation was, a _shame_, but surely the boy would come to his senses eventually, as hot-headed young boys so often did—in the meantime, all of them were of course welcome in his office at any time, and he could of _course_ count on their continued attendance at Slug Club functions, could he not?

Bella had swept out of the room immediately at that, slamming the door behind her and leaving Andy and Cissy to smooth things over with their Head of House. The Slytherin common room had been mercifully empty at that point, and she'd basked in its familiar, comforting green glow for a moment before rushing upstairs to her dormitory, where she lay immobile on her bed, curtains drawn, staring blankly into space until Andy came to tell her it was time for the evening feast, concern and warning in her eyes.

Now, whatever blissful momentary solitude she'd found had given way to the bright light of the Great Hall's hundreds of floating candles and the stares of a thousand interested eyes.

"They're all staring at us," said Cissy in a mortified whisper as they walked toward the Slytherin table in what seemed to be slow motion. Every click of their heels against the marble floor echoed far and above in the hushed, domed hall.

"Must be Tuesday," drawled Andy, head held high, every inch the haughty Pureblood queen that Bella, with a sick, sinking feeling in her stomach, realized she was for once incapable of playing. The Gryffindor table was rushed past in a nauseating blur of scarlet, but out of the corner of her eye Bellatrix saw Emmeline Vance whisper something indiscernible to the girl next to her as they passed, igniting loud laughter-Andromeda rested a hand lightly on her arm, and Bella's livid curse died quickly in her throat.

Upon reaching the table at last, none of them hesitated an instant before breaking off into their separate groups of friends in their respective years. In Slytherin, after all, appearances must be upheld at all costs. Steeling herself, Bella quickly found Willa Blishwick in the midst of the usual group of elite 6th-year Slytherin girls and slid unceremoniously onto the bench next to her, smoothly shoving Evelyn Bulstrode aside in the process. People had gone back to their suppers now, and the roar of ordinary conversation had thankfully resumed—punctuated, of course, by an eruption of gossip.

"Bellatrix!" exclaimed Willa brightly, eyes widened in exaggerated surprise. "I hadn't even noticed you were here." This was a blatant lie; Willa's voracious eye for gossip missed nothing, not least the most anticipated arrival of the evening.

"You clearly haven't noticed that enormous spot on your chin either, have you, Willa?" snapped Bellatrix, loading potatoes onto her plate with perhaps slightly more force than necessary.

To Bella's immense surprise, however, Willa did not respond with her usual simpering. Exchanging a significant, smirking look with Evelyn Bulstrode and Thea Burke, she set down her fork and turned to Bella with an entirely unwarranted air of superiority. "I would be careful not to offend me if I were you, Bellatrix Black. _Some_ of us have returned to school with our collective reputations intact, while others..." she raised her eyebrows pointedly and looked down at her plate, lowering her voice in some sick mockery of propriety. "...well, _others_ now have blood-traitors in the family."

Bella's fingers twitched toward her wand. "How _dare_ you."

Willa wouldn't look at her, her smug resolve faltering now under Bella's fury, so Evelyn jumped in instead with a nerve Bellatrix hadn't known she possessed, smiling spitefully. "Perhaps Willa didn't make herself clear. We no longer wish to be associated with the disgraced family members of blood-traitors. Your reign's over, Bellatrix."

Momentarily stunned, Bella looked disbelievingly from Evelyn to Thea—who was looking down at her own plate in silent, mutinous assent. When Willa finally looked up again with uncommonly brave defiance, she slowly and deliberately rested her left hand on the table, and it was then that Bellatrix saw the ring.

14th-century goblin gold, ornately welded into a horribly familiar emerald-encrusted coat of arms: the Lestrange family crest.

Bella leapt to her feet, wand out, and pointed it furiously at the girl who had so often and so desperately claimed to be her best friend—sparks flew out immediately. Willa gave a satisfying little shriek and cowered back into Evelyn, who had paled considerably. "You hideous, scheming little bitch," she snarled, voice rising with an anger no amount of training in proper Black decorum could suppress. "You were just _waiting_ for this, weren't you? I'll rip you to _shreds_—you think you can _take my place_? You think he'll ever—EVER_—_"

"Is there a problem, Black?"

Seething, Bellatrix turned around to meet the smug, pointed face of Lucius Malfoy, 7th-year Prefect badge glinting brightly on his custom French-tailored robes. He raised one white-blond eyebrow expectantly, and she gritted her teeth, replacing her wand. "None that's any of your business, Malfoy."

"I should hope not. Try not to create any more scenes, will you? We've all had more than our share of scandal lately, thanks to the Black family's white sheep." Bella's biting reply was lost as he turned with a final barbed smile to resume his survey of the Hall, stopping briefly at the far end of the table where Narcissa was being fawned over by her own sycophantic gaggle of 4th-year Slytherin girls—all comforting her sympathetically—to lay a consoling hand on her shoulder. Cissy looked up at him sweetly and squeezed out a single solitary tear. Bellatrix wanted to scream.

Willa, Evelyn, and Thea, meanwhile, were laughing into their hands, and several lower-status Slytherin girls nearby were smirking. "Maybe Gryffindor will have her," giggled Willa, the Lestrange ring tight on her pudgy little finger. Without a word, Bellatrix picked up her untouched plate of potatoes and smashed it full-force into Willa Blishwick's pug-like face.

She shrieked, tried to stand up, and succeeded only in tripping over the wooden bench to fall flat onto the floor. Bella stalked out of the Great Hall before anyone had registered what had just happened, ignoring Willa's shrieks of "MY HAIR! THAT _BITCH_! I'M BLEEDING!" and allowing herself the smallest of smiles. Andromeda was nowhere to be found, presumably calmly carrying out her Prefect duties somewhere far, far away from this unmitigated disaster, Reg had skipped out on the feast in the first place in favour of reading alone in his dormitory (waited upon by his dearest of friends, the Hogwarts house elves), and Cissy had paused her tearful sympathy-mongering for a moment to stare, open-mouthed—Bellatrix kept walking.

The familiar sound of loud, barking laughter nearly strangled her as she passed the Gryffindor table again, and as soon as the enormous entrance doors closed behind her, blocking out the roar of the Hall and leaving her mercifully alone in a dimly lit castle corridor, she turned a corner, leaned over, and hurled into a nearby suit of armour. It squeaked in protest. Bellatrix kicked it.

"Bella." The voice was low, rough, _concerned_. Rodolphus, of all people, had apparently followed her in her dramatic flounce from the Great Hall. Bellatrix didn't trust herself to turn around. "What's wrong?"

She gave a sharp, caustic laugh. "I _wonder. _My idiot cousin abandons the Family, disgracing us all in the process, I was just usurped and humiliated in front of the entire House, and _you_ are now shagging Willa _bloody_ Blishwick!" She whirled around with renewed fury to find him very close. "What could _possibly_ be wrong!"

Rodolphus stared for a moment, clearly bemused, before bursting into loud, raucous laughter. Bellatrix gaped incredulously, growing more furious by the second. He choked out, "Bella—"

"Don't you _dare_—"

"_Bellatrix. _She started dating my brother over holiday. Rabastan can fuck all the dog-faced girls his hairy little heart desires, but Salazar knows I haven't so much as touched Willa Blishwick. Have a _little_ faith in my taste, won't you?"

What? Rabastan Lestrange, a year younger than Rodolphus, was also considerably less attractive and well respected. Oh, Willa. Her attempts to become a new, cheap imitation of Bellatrix Black were so _pathetically_ transparent. She wanted to laugh as well, but then the second half of that statement registered, and she was once again livid with disbelief.

"When your _taste _involves shagging Celia Selwyn underneath the Quidditch pitch the day after you—after we—for the first time—" She broke off, astonished and enraged to find her eyes stinging with hot tears, the emotional ordeals of the past two weeks threatening suddenly to overwhelm her completely. Too humiliated and beside herself to speak, she tried to turn away, but Rodolphus grabbed her arm. She struggled, but his fingers dug in tighter, face constricted and impassioned. "Let me _go!_"

"Bella, listen to me. What we did—" he placed a stray strand of hair behind her ear with surprising tenderness and tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes. She attempted to shoot fire into them with hers. "It was the best night of my life, alright?" He brushed a hand through his own hair now and took a deep breath, uncommonly flustered. "I know it was...impulsive…and I know that you regret it, but every second—it was a bloody revelation, and the Selwyn girl—_no one_ else has ever meant anything. You have to know that. It was a mistake, an attempt to get under your skin after you ignored me afterward, because that's what we _do_. It was never supposed to get that far and I didn't expect you to cut me off over it but it was all over _you. _You make me _insane_, Bella, but it's always been you. It'll _always_—"

Unthinking, Bellatrix cut him off, pressing her lips to his so hard that he staggered backward into the wall, digging his fingers into her waist, pulling her closer and kissing her back with matched intensity. For a few short moments, they clutched at each other in a frenzy of unchecked passion—his tongue slipping between her lips, his hand sliding up her skirt—until she promptly pulled away.

"This doesn't mean we're back together, Lestrange; this doesn't mean _anything_. I ignored you because I was _scared_, you stupid prat, and I still hate you. But I regret nothing." His dark blue eyes widened in surprise, his lips parted—She paused, considering. "Well, nothing but the fact that the holiday didn't give me the opportunity to do _this_." She leaned close, their chests touching, lips nearly meeting once more, and then, with a quick upward thrust, kneed him hard between the legs. Rodolphus doubled over in agony. Satisfied, Bellatrix started off down the corridor toward the dungeons when she abruptly stopped, remembering. "What does the phrase 'separate here now' mean to you?"

Rodolphus cursed, painfully pulling himself up again and staring at her as if she had just Confunded him. "You are absolutely _batshit_, do you realize that?" There was no possibility of the incredulous bewilderment written all over his features being forced; Rodolphus was never much of an actor.

He hadn't sent her the riddle.

Everyone else was still at the feast, but Andromeda was waiting for her in the common room, wielding her Prefect badge in resignation and immediately deducting 20 points from Slytherin for the outburst in the Hall. "Slughorn sent me to find you," she explained wearily as Bellatrix rolled her eyes. "I think he's still uneasy about punishing you after last year's mandrake incident."

Bella shrugged, heading upstairs to her dormitory to find something to eat and feeling heavy, estranged emptiness consuming her once more. "If anyone's ever deserved a plate of potatoes in the face—"

"—it's Willa Blishwick," Andy finished readily, and grinned. "From what I can tell, you showed remarkable restraint."

* * *

If the students of Hogwarts had expected another spectacularly dramatic incident the following morning at breakfast, they were sorely disappointed. Refusing the hesitant suggestions of Andromeda, Regulus, and Narcissa to sit together as a Family, Bellatrix went immediately to the farthest end of the table, where she sat alone, shooting Willa and the rest of her rebellious cronies a cheery wave and a snide, unpleasant smile. Rodolphus soon joined her, as she suspected (or perhaps hoped) he would, followed by Evan, Mulciber, Avery, and Wilkes (Willa sniffed and attempted to call Rabastan over—he appeared, hilariously, to be ignoring her).

"We have business to discuss," said Rodolphus casually, nodding to her as he bit into a biscuit, acting for all the world as if everything were perfectly ordinary. He gestured to Mulciber. "Shall we?"

Ah. Bellatrix was mildly surprised to find she'd forgotten about their little Dark Arts scheme entirely—or in any case, she hadn't thought of it since that afternoon three days ago in Knockturn Alley and her brief, disastrous discussion with Evan following. It seemed like an eternity ago, now, this foolish, pointless game thought up one night in the common room over a little too much butterbeer. She sat listless and uncaring as they began to enthusiastically talk and plot, finding she'd lost interest entirely.

What was the point in playing with the Dark Arts now, really? How meaningless and unimportant was it, in the scheme of things? Rodolphus, Evan, and the rest could play at being powerful, because they _would _be someday, but she—_she_ would be married off by graduation, cloistered away in an ancient manor house for all eternity with a faceless Pureblood husband who would teach their sons the Dark magic that would always be, to her, forbidden. That was the way the world worked, the way things were supposed to be. Tradition, noble and mostancient.

Her jaw tightened in remembrance of pouring over heavy volumes and ancient tomes in the Family library (no Dark witches there, or anywhere, not since Morgana le Fay, and look how _that _turned out), tracing the fearsome surname crawling spider-like up the tapestry…it would not be _her_ birthright, not for long. After the _Gryffindor_, there would be no escape: his was the last possible rebellion.

"What do you think, Black?" Mulciber was saying impatiently. "Black!" Bellatrix jolted out of resentful contemplation to find them all looking at her expectantly.

"It was an idiotic idea," she snapped, stabbing at her eggs with particular viciousness. "It will never work, we're not going to get away with using Dark magic at school, and there's nothing we can do about it."

They all exchanged looks. Mulciber said nastily, "_Someone's_ got a crimson-and-gold-coloured skrewt up her—"

Before Bella and Rodolphus could both reach for their wands, Avery cut in hastily, "We really should _not_ be discussing this over breakfast, and besides, I've wanted to show you all something…interesting." Distracted and intrigued, they watched him reach into the pocket of his robes to pull out a small, tattered black-and-white photograph. "I found this going through my father's study looking for clues about the Knights—didn't find anything, of course, but _this_, along with several other old school photographs, was buried beneath a pile of papers in his desk. I transfigured an imitation and took the original with me. Have a look."

They all passed it around, Bellatrix grabbing it first. Five teenage boys in outdated Slytherin uniforms sat in what appeared to be a more antique version of Slughorn's spacious office, lounging with casual arrogance on velvet-cushioned chairs. With a shock of recognition, Bella noted Damien Rosier among them, looking much like Evan at sixteen, and a wolfish, dark-haired boy eerily resembling Rodolphus sitting next to him—his father. Strangely, the elder Rosier and Lestrange, along with the other two boys—one dark-skinned like Avery, one with Mulciber's hypnotic eyes—were not looking at the camera: instead, they seemed to be focusing all of their attention on the unfamiliar black-haired boy sitting on a simple stool in the immediate centre of the photograph as if it were a throne.

Her breath caught as she exhaled—his was the most strikingly handsome face she'd ever seen. A master sculptor might have carved his pale, salient features, and his dark eyes alone shone straight into the frame, appearing to challenge hers as she looked at him. Every few seconds his lips would part slightly, saying something indiscernible, and the boys surrounding him would laugh uproariously. His commanding presence was clear—in the world of the photograph, he was king, ruling over four willing subjects.

The others studied it in turn, murmuring when they recognized their fathers. "_My_ father isn't there," said Wilkes, inconsequentially.

"Shocking," sneered Mulciber, causing Lorcan to flush at the reminder of his less-than-prestigious heritage, technical half-blood that he was. "Although," he said thoughtfully, grabbing it back again, "yours isn't either, Black. Strange."

Bellatrix understood his meaning: this was obviously one of Slughorn's unofficial elite groups of promising Pureblood students, and all of their fathers had attended Hogwarts at the same time. Why _wouldn't _Cygnus Black—or Orion, the Black _Heir_, for that matter—be included? But more importantly—"Who is he?" she demanded, looking to Avery. "The one in the middle." The clarification was unnecessary; they'd all known to whom she was referring immediately.

Avery raised his eyebrows enticingly. "Turn it over."

Mulciber did so, to find five names written in scrawled, faded cursive on the back. He read them aloud. "Maximus Mulciber, Lincoln Avery, Tom Riddle, Damien Rosier, Leander Lestrange. Slug Club, 1945." He looked up at them all, bright green eyes lit up with dawning comprehension. "_Riddle_."

Evan stared at each of them in turn, brow furrowed as the rest of them glanced at each other in exhilarated anticipation. "What am I missing here?"

Rodolphus filled him in quickly, still staring excitedly at the photograph. "Mulciber here overheard _Maximus_ talking top-secret Knights business—and by business I mean_revolution_—in the fireplace over holiday. Key word? 'Riddle.' I think we have our answer."

"But who _is_ Tom Riddle?" Bellatrix broke in urgently. The name felt strangely vitalizing on her tongue, and it was refreshing to _care_ about something again, though she wasn't sure why, exactly, the identity of this mysterious boy from another era mattered so very much to her. "And why have none of your fathers so much as mentioned him before? He's not a student in a photograph anymore."

Avery shrugged elegantly. "That's what I can't figure out. There are no records of him _anywhere _from what little I've been able to tell, and 'Riddle' is no wizarding surname I've ever heard."

"An alias?" came Evan's hesitant suggestion.

"Maybe," said Rodolphus slowly. "But what if whatever name he's going by _now _is the alias?"

The bell signalling the start of morning classes rang loudly, preventing further speculation as everyone began to file out of the Great Hall. Avery started to replace the photograph in his pocket when Bellatrix said, "Wait!" He looked at her, surprised, and she coloured. There was no reason for her to hold on to the photograph and didn't know why it called to her so strongly in the first place.

She considered, for a moment, telling them all about her own unsigned and as-yet-unsolved riddle, which had taken on an entirely new significance in the past fifteen minutes, before deciding to keep that particular development to herself for the time being. "I…I think we should continue this discussion as soon as possible," she finished lamely.

Rodolphus nodded firmly, still appearing lost in thought as they went their separate ways to class, Rodolphus heading to Arithmancy with Wilkes, Avery, and Mulciber while Bellatrix and Evan set off toward Defence Against the Dark Arts. "Whatever our fathers and the Knights are up to, Walpurgis Night is coming. We'll all know soon enough."

* * *

Defence Against the Dark Arts, customarily one of Bella's favourite classes—or at any rate one of the few she bothered to actually pay any attention to—had acquired a newly unpleasant sheen since the holiday. While Willa, Evelyn, and most of the other 6th-year Slytherin girls had neither the interest nor the proficiency in the subject to continue on to N.E.W.T.-level, sparing Bellatrix further provocation for the time being, the class was unsurprisingly overrun by Gryffindors.

Ordinarily this was a revolting nuisance more than anything, as sharing space with Mudbloods and their sympathizers typically was, but today the mutual Gryffindor-Slytherin loathing seemed to have transcended into one-sided gloating. Bellatrix caught several people turning to smirk as she and Evan moved to sit in the back corner of the room, and contented herself with a menacing glare.

Professor Gibbon was a small, waspish man in his mid-forties already well known for innovatory work abroad as a research scholar for the Ministry before he accepted a position at Hogwarts after Professor Bainbridge's sudden, fatal case of Dragon Pox at the end of last term. While he was widely celebrated for his work, which included a ground-breaking theory on the uses of Egyptian asphodel in defensive magic, the Gibbons were a traditionally politically neutral family of Ravenclaws, and his steadfast refusal to discuss recent Dark attacks or show overt loyalty to any cause left his stance on the current political atmosphere inscrutable. He had always been rather unsettling to Bellatrix—there was something distasteful about him, a foul, decaying scent that clung to his plain brown robes and permeated the air as he walked, making her skin crawl.

"Gorgons remain a threat in many parts of the magical world," he was saying briskly in his thin, raspy voice, outlining today's lesson on dangerous Dark creatures. "Eastern mystics still tell tales of vicious female monsters with sharp fangs and hair of living, venomous snakes, protectors of the most ancient ritual secrets of magic. Some say—what is it, Mr. Gamp?"

Claudius Gamp, a precocious Slytherin not sly, intimidating, or aristocratic enough to be counted among Rodolphus's gang, said pompously, "My mother—she's Grecian, sir—says we're descended from the original gorgon, Medusa, who was descended from Athena's daughter Cre…Creusa, I believe? Who—"

"Is the snake goddess said to be an ancestress of Salazar Slytherin, which would make _you _an Heir," finished Gibbon with a dismissive sneer. "Is that so. I do not doubt that your mother holds these grandiose delusions." The class snickered: Gryffindor, Slytherin, and all the rest alike. "Allow me to assure you it is unlikely that the blood of Creusa, traced down the female line for thousands of years, exists today in the form of a pretentious little braggart unable, if your last exam was any indication, to tell the difference between _Steleus_ and _Stupefy_."

"But that's all just a story, isn't it?" a Hufflepuff girl spoke up amidst the resulting jeers and laughter. "I mean, _goddesses_…that's all just myth."

"The Muggles would say so, Miss MacMillan" Gibbon conceded. A vein in his neck twitched unnervingly, and he gave a small grimace. "But then, they would say so of so many things, would they not? Let us continue to examine these…myths. Open your books to page 547."

Bellatrix flipped hers open lazily to reveal a gruesome medieval engraving of a screaming woman with twisting snakes for hair, terrifying in tortured beauty, brutally cut open by an unseen hand—her entrails spilling out in a gushing stream of red. Several students looked as if they would be sick. "Like that of the unicorn, gorgon blood is said to have magical properties," said Gibbon. "If taken from the left side of the creature, it is a fatal poison." His close-set hazel eyes glinted strangely. "From the right side, the blood is capable of bringing the dead to life."

"Resurrection? Like—like a ghost?"

"Your _hand_, Mr. Brown. Not at all like a ghost. A ghost is merely a soul's imprint, and fully realized resurrection is impossible under the laws of magic; it cannot be done. There are, however, means by which the dead can be made to walk again." Gibbon was pacing now, speaking quickly, beady eyes transfixed at something invisible and distant out the window. "'Life' would perhaps be too generous a term, but animation is feasible." He paused to tear his eyes away from the wintry lakeside view, unnaturally animated himself and seeming to savour their uneasiness, or queasiness, in turn. The class stared at him, discomfited, and he smiled unpleasantly. "Or so it is said."

A skinny, red-haired Gryffindor boy broke the tense silence. "Has anyone actually _tried_ this? Using mythological monsters to make dead bodies come to life, I mean. You'd think there'd be a market for that." The class chuckled; Gibbon did not so much as twitch out a smile.

"If you can manage, Mr. Weasley, to get close enough to a gorgon to bleed it without its snakes first turning you to stone, you are certainly welcome to report back with your findings. Until then, I suggest you all focus on learning defence against these creatures—what little there may be."

He launched into an impressively dull lecture, and Bellatrix sank into her seat, finding her thoughts drawn back to the photograph from breakfast. _Riddle_. Her fingers inched toward the mysterious, neatly pressed piece of parchment in her satchel. It was too strange of a connection to be entirely coincidence. Either someone (the pale, pointed face of Lucius Malfoy flashed across her mind) was playing with her (to what purpose?), or—

"Did you hear about Sirius Black?"

Bellatrix froze. Emmeline Vance was whispering salaciously to another Gryffindor girl nearby, clearly unaware of Bella's own presence close behind them. "Running away from a family like _that_, can you imagine? The _nerve_…" Bella gritted her teeth, struggling to remain calm. A glance over at Evan showed he was dutifully absorbed in the lecture, scribbling away on a scroll, oblivious. She faced frontwards again, fingernails digging into shaking palms.

"So brave," sighed the second girl, giggling revoltingly. "And I _know_ he's only a 5th-year, but Merlin, he's gorgeous."

Emmeline smirked. "_Shockingly_ so, what with all the inbreeding. I kissed him at a Quidditch party last term, but—"

The other girl gasped delightedly. "Em, you didn't!"

Emmeline rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Valerie, who _hasn't_? He's probably kissed his own _cousins_ loads of times, the way those old lines like to keep it in the family. They're all mad, you know. Completely barking mad."

Desperately, blindingly furious, Bellatrix had drawn her wand and half-risen out of her seat when the girl sitting directly in front of her and across from Emmeline spoke.

"You know, Vance, trying to deflect attention from your own little family _scandals _would be a lot more successful if we didn't all already know your mum's shagging the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister."

Emmeline gaped, plump lips forming an astonished _O_. "Excuse me?"

The girl—a Ravenclaw she'd never bothered to notice before, Bella saw now, with bright streaks of blue in her choppy ash-blonde hair—quirked an eyebrow and smiled pleasantly. "Oh, don't act so surprised. It's not exactly a secret, is it, or so my aunt says—those _Ministry_ employees and their _gossip_. The Senior Undersecretary and a lowly, married Muggle Relations clerk…just scandalous. I for one am appalled. Delicate moral sensibilities, all that."

Emmeline reddened, sputtering, "I have—you—that's—"

The blue-haired girl's smile was sharp as knives. "Glass houses, love. You know what they say."

"Dorcas Meadowes! Emmeline Vance! _Bellatrix Black_!" Emmeline whipped around at the name, dazed, to see Bellatrix still half out of her chair, wand pointed at her throat—she paled, choked out a strangled gasp, and sank deep into her seat, looking horrified. Professor Gibbon's beady hazel eyes narrowed. "Miss Meadowes, do inform us all what relevancy your discussion with Miss Vance has to defending oneself against Dark creatures abroad, and remind me, Miss Black, at which point today I instructed you to begin duelling practice."

The blue-haired girl—Dorcas? What a horrible name—widened her eyes with practiced innocence. "Apologies, sir. Emmeline here seems confused about proper class etiquette; it's fallen upon Bellatrix and I to correct her. _Politely_, of course."

"Isthat so," sneered Gibbon. "Ten points from Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, _and _Slytherin. Not even one day back and it appears Hufflepuff is in the lead. A first."

Emmeline sank further into her chair as the class groaned. Bellatrix sat back, regaining her composure with effort and determinedly focusing on the book. Several minutes of uneventful resumed lecture later, Dorcas discreetly levitated a note onto Bella's desk.

_Cassie Meadowes_, it read in huge, careless block letters. _Call me Dorcas and I'll hex you into the next century._

Slightly affronted, Bella scribbled back, _I would like to see you try, Dorcas._

In front of her, the blue-haired girl snorted softly but didn't turn around. _Nice to meet you, too, Trixie._

Bellatrix did not deign to respond.

* * *

"It hasn't been _so_ bad," murmured Narcissa during the following weekend's Hogsmeade visit, sucking prettily on a sugar quill and pretending not to notice Lucius Malfoy's greedy stare. "Everyone's been perfectly understanding, actually, all things considered."

"How charmed for you," snapped Bellatrix, tossing a few galleons to the Honeydukes clerk and dragging her sister out the door, turning to give Malfoy a rude, _most _un-ladylike gesture on the way.

"Yes," Narcissa agreed, happily oblivious to Bella's vexation. "Alana Avery told me she—"

"Cissy, stop prattling for all of three seconds and help me find Andromeda!" Bella quickly searched the snow-swept street—there was no sign of her, and she'd promised to meet them at Honeydukes over an hour ago. "Merlin, do you _ever _shut up?"

The younger girl fell silent, hurt, and after a moment said sullenly, "This is about Willa, isn't it? Bella, we've _told _you, she's beastly, and when did you ever need _her _approval anyway—you have Rodolphus." Bellatrix glared and started a cold reply, but Narcissa suddenly gasped and grabbed her hand tight enough to bruise. "_Oh_—Bella…"

Startled, Bellatrix followed her gaze to the bright, cheery Zonko's entrance several yards away, where Andromeda was laughing with two 5th-year boys: a Hufflepuff and a Gryffindor. This would have been unremarkable in itself—of all of them, and particularly now that she was a Prefect, Andy had always had the most inter-House friends—if it weren't for the fact that the taller of the two, the Gryffindor, was their disowned former cousin.

"Bella…Bella, wait…" Ignoring Cissy's pleas, Bellatrix stormed over to Zonko's. Andromeda turned to see her coming, her happy, laughing expression falling immediately into one of stubborn defiance.

"What do you think you're doing?" hissed Bella, seizing Andromeda's arm and attempting to pull her out of the little group—the Hufflepuff boy protested loudly—Andy wrenched herself away and said heatedly, eyes flashing, "We're talking, Bella! It's nothing!"

"Nothing?" Bellatrix snarled. "_Nothing?_ Do you want everyone thinking we have _two _blood-traitors in the Family?"

"Bella, please," cried Narcissa, on the verge of tears. "We don't air Family disagreements in public!"

"Stand up to her, Andy!" said Sirius angrily, and Bellatrix whirled around, furious. How dare he make _her _the villain, when he had betrayed them all?

"You stay out of this, Blood-Traitor! You made your choice!"

"He's still our cousin, Bellatrix!" shouted Andromeda, looking as though she, too, were about to cry.

"Hey now," the sandy-haired Hufflepuff boy said in a mellow, pleasant voice over the resulting shouting from all sides. "Nobody needs to yell." They were drawing a scene now; Narcissa shrank back, mortified.

"And who," said Bella in her iciest, haughtiest voice, "are _you_?"

Suddenly nervous, Andromeda said, "It's fine, Bella. Let's go."

"No, 'Dromeda." He turned to Bella, who was staring incredulously—_'Dromeda?_—and smiled tersely, holding out a hand. "I'm Ted. Ted Tonks."

A Mudblood. Andromeda had been talking with Sirius and a _Mudblood_. Bellatrix stared at her in disbelieving horror. Andy looked around at all of them helplessly. "I didn't—" she said pleadingly— "Bella, I didn't know—"

"Andromeda," said Bella dangerously, "we will be going now."

"Andy—" said Sirius, just as the Mudblood said, "'Dromeda—"

Bellatrix drew her wand. "You are taking dangerous familiarities, Mudblood." His soft brown eyes widened at the word and weapon—she ignored the murmurs of the crowd and Sirius's angry exclamation. "If you know what's wise, you'll _stay away from my sister_."

She turned away in a flurry of snow and winter cloaks, heading back toward the castle—Cissy, and then Andromeda, followed her. None of them said anything for several long, tense moments—and then Bellatrix spoke in a hard, angry voice. "That's what happens when you associate with blood-traitors, Andy. You associate with Mudbloods, as well."

Andromeda said curtly, "I understand, Bella."

Bellatrix stopped, and studied her. Andy's face was flushed, guilty_, _miserable: it was like looking into a slightly distorted mirror. "Do you, Andy?" she asked intently. "Do you really?" Narcissa watched closely as Andromeda gave a short nod and Bellatrix replaced her wand. "I hope so, for all our sakes."

* * *

Gradually, and entirely against her will, Bella was becoming friends with Dorcas Meadowes.

Over the next few weeks, as the brutal winter snows began to shift into the heavy rainstorms of spring and the great scandal of the House of Black's runaway Heir slowly settled into the realm of idle gossip, they found themselves paired together on the Defence term project—leading to more out-of-class meetings in the library than Bella had ever desired to experience.

For Bellatrix, who had always associated near-exclusively with Slytherins and for whom other girls were typically more like obedient servants than actual friends, it was a strange partnership—but between providing an ally in class and a highly competent study partner afterward, the Ravenclaw girl was proving to be an unexpectedly valuable connection, and one who clearly cared little for Bella's own powerful resources.

Rodolphus and his gang did not comment on this new development, whether out of apathy or pity—as Willa and the rest of the girls were still giving her the cold shoulder—she did not know…but Andromeda, for one, seemed delighted by it. Bellatrix knew she viewed cultivating an inter-House friendship of her own as a peace offering of sorts after their spat, and found it convenient not to disavow this idea for the time being.

One dull, ordinary day, Bella and _Cassie_ sat at the farthest study table in the very back of the Hogwarts library during the 6th-year free period, ostensibly working on the term project—Bellatrix silently transcribing notes on Defence theory based upon demonic possession in the Greco-Roman wizarding world (their assigned, surprisingly fascinating topic), and Cassie poring over that morning's Prophet, chiming in occasionally with suggestions.

"You'll want to note there that those protective Roman counter-curses were directly influenced by the Egyptian spirit mediums, who stole straight from the Greeks—just a big circular orgy of ancient magical thievery, really—oh, look, the Harpies beat the Harriers again—"

"Do you have legitimate _sources _for any of this?" asked Bellatrix through gritted teeth. "And would you put _down_ that bloody paper!" She reached across the table to grab it out of the other girl's hands and tossed it to the floor.

Cassie shrugged, unbothered. The girl was impossible to intimidate, which Bella found endlessly irksome. "You can credit personal experience, love." Bellatrix was about to state the obvious fact that _Dorcas _had clearly not been around to converse with ancient Egyptian spirit mediums when she added, "My mum and dad were curse-breakers. I grew up on all this." She motioned vaguely at the books and scrolls spread out on the table before them and gave a crooked grin. "I was born in an ancient Egyptian tomb. Conceived in one, too, probably."

Taken aback, Bellatrix put down her quill and stared at the Meadowes girl with a new spark of interest. Curse-breakers had the most dangerous—and appropriately glamorous—job in the magical world. From what she could tell, the Meadowes were technically Purebloods, though plainly not the sort to run in the same circles of wizarding nobility as the Blacks—which meant Mrs. Meadowes was the sort of witch with the _freedom_ to run around the globe on adventures in search of curse-protected gold. Looking at Cassie now, this outcast-by-choice with ridiculous blue-streaked hair, Bella felt a sudden stab of envy.

"_Were_ curse-breakers? Where are they now?"

Cassie shrugged again, reaching down to pick up the newspaper and avoiding her gaze. "Rotting with their mummies, I expect."

Bella went cold. "They—died?"

"One can hope." Cassie gave a small, acidic smile. "It's that or trapped in somebody else's crypt for all eternity, isn't it?" She was tearing at the paper now, ripping a photograph of Nobby Leach, Minister for Magic, in two. "They never came back from an assignment, five years ago. They were searching for the lost amulet of Atlantis, thought it was buried with this Theban Dark sorcerer—everybody said it was a suicide mission—guess they were right, in the end."

"I…I'm sorry," said Bellatrix awkwardly, at a loss for words. She knew no other orphans—Mulciber's mother had run away with a French Muggle when he was two, causing great scandal at the time, but that wasn't at all the same.

"Don't be," Cassie said brusquely, still shredding Nobby Leach's face. "I stay at my aunt's flat in London now, instead of tramping all over the planet. It's nice to have a place to call home, you know?" She glanced up at Bella, laughed shortly, and said, "Though it's probably no royal palace or whatever it is _you_ live in. A haunted mansion?"

"Manor," said Bellatrix. "A manor house."

"Naturally." They sat in awkward silence, listening to the sounds of other students bustling about the library, before Cassie spoke again, quieter. "But see? You're not the only one who's lost family."

Rodolphus chose that moment to enter the library, looking for Bellatrix in order to walk to Transfiguration together—as they'd taken to doing again—and subsequently saving her from a reply. The free period was over.

Bella began to gather up books into her satchel, and Cassie saw him, too. "Ah. Rodolphus Lestrange, the fearsome Slytherin Quidditch captain. I've got a match with him next week, can't _wait._" She eyed Bellatrix shrewdly. "You two back together, then?"

"Of course not," she said briskly, unable to keep a flush of colour from her cheeks. "I'll see you in class."

Dorcas laughed. "Whatever you say, Trix."

Bellatrix glared in response and started to hurry toward the door, but Cassie called after her, "Wait—this fell out of your satchel."

She turned to find Cassie holding up a small piece of parchment, sharp eyes sweeping it quickly. _The riddle. _Bellatrix leapt toward her, but she drew it back, looking at her curiously. "What's it for?"

"It's nothing," snapped Bella. "A riddle. Give it to me. _Now_."

Cassie arched a brow. "_Oh-_kay then." She handed back the slip of paper with an indifferent shrug. "Have you solved it?"

"Not yet," Bella admitted, placing it carefully into her bag again and glancing toward the library exit, where Rodolphus was waiting impatiently. A sudden thought struck her, and she looked back at Cassie intently. "You're good at puzzles and runes—can you?"

The Ravenclaw girl's mouth twisted in concentration, enlivened at the dare. "Hmm. The key's the words in capitals, I think—'SEPARATE HERE NOW.' Must mean something more. Try translating? Latin, maybe?"

Bellatrix bit her lip, wracking her memory for half-remembered Latin lessons with her sisters so many years ago. "Separate is…_dissocio_, but to add the 'here' command you need an _en_, and for 'now' it must be…"

"_Dium_," Cassie finished helpfully. "All together, _dissendium._" She paused, thinking. "Sounds like a spell. Whose riddle is it, anyway?"

"I wish I knew," said Bella distractedly, mind racing. "I—I have to go." Cassie gave a mock salute in reply, and Bellatrix left the library.

"What was _that _about?" Rodolphus asked, annoyed, as they hurried down the corridor, causing crowds to part by sheer combined force of will.

"I haven't the slightest idea," Bella said dismissively, but a new, thrilling sense of purpose had risen within her, and she added in silence: _I intend to find out._

* * *

She had pored over the riddle for three days now, with no further breakthroughs. _Dissendium_, if it was truly a spell, had no apparent use, as nothing happened when she spoke it—the rest remained a mystery.

On the fourth day, however, everything changed.

She was walking back from Astronomy alone when it happened—Professor Sinistra had released the class later than usual on account of the full moon that night, requiring their lunar calendars to be completed in class to take full advantage. Bellatrix had planned to stop by the library to pick up a few additional Runes books to assist with that night's homework before returning to the dungeons, but Madam Pince was already locking up when she arrived.

"Library's closed," she snapped, putting up the wards just as Bella turned the corner. "Ten o'clock in the evening, you know the rules."

"I just need—" started Bellatrix, but Pince was already shuffling away, pointedly ignoring her. This particular Ancient Runes assignment would have to wait.

Irritated, and mentally cursing the graves of Sinistra and Pince alike, Bellatrix headed toward the moving staircases. The fourth floor corridor was deserted now, and lit only by flickering torchlight; the portraits lining the walls hushed as they prepared for bed. It was as she passed the huge, gold-framed mirror next to a row of matching suits of armour that she heard them: _voices in the wall._

They were muffled, indistinct, but decisively male—and growing closer. Bellatrix instinctively hid herself in the shadows behind the suits of armour as they became louder, and soon recognizable: it was the muted voice of James Potter…and Sirius. And in the next instant, before Bella had time to fully process what was happening, they had stepped _out of the mirror_ and were standing directly in front of it, as though they had been there all along.

_A secret passageway, _she realized with a jolt. Having intimate knowledge of the castle's labyrinthine secrets certainly explained some of Sirius's more impressive pranks over the years, but she had no desire to be privy to his childish games, or to even see him at all—let alone have him see her. As she reasoned what to do, still unseen in the shadows, they continued to talk in low, insistent tones, voices no longer muffled behind the wall.

"I _swear_ it wasn't on purpose," Sirius was saying urgently. "Tonight feels different, _eviller_ somehow—there's Dark magic in the air, I feel it—no wonder Snivellus is out and about—"

"_Damn _you, Sirius!" exclaimed James Potter, uncharacteristically angry and distraught. "He could be _killed_! What d'you think would happen to Moony then? Did you even think of that, of course you didn't—we have to get back to the Shack straight away, this was a mistake—"

Sirius looked stricken, but suddenly tensed, looking around wildly. "Wait! Prongs, there's someone here…I smell…_her_…" Bellatrix stiffened—not knowing what else to do, not wanting him to discover her hiding from him in the shadows, she stepped out into the light.

"Hello, cousin."

Both boys jumped and whirled around, cursing. "Speak of the _fucking _devil," said Sirius. "Are you _stalking_ me now?"

"Don't flatter yourself," Bellatrix sneered disdainfully. "You're not the only one with business in the corridors after hours. Though not all of us are plotting murder, as it seems." She smiled grimly. "What would happen, I wonder, if the Headmaster were to hear of this conversation?"

"You have _no idea_ what you're talking about—"

"Prongs, I'll handle her—just _go_!"

With a quick, desperate look at each cousin in turn, James Potter took off running without another word, leaving Bella and Sirius alone. They eyed each other uneasily, pacing around each other in circles as if preparing for a duel.

"Tonight's not the night to pick a fight with me, Bellatrix," warned Sirius.

"I'd say the same to you," she mused, "but I've been _dying _to dole out a little vengeance. So by all means, do your worst."

"What, without Lestrange here to lick your wounds?" His eyes glinted in the torchlight. "Too tempting."

They'd stopped pacing and were very close now, each with a hand resting on a wand. Bellatrix could smell the night on him—he'd been outdoors, just minutes ago. "You will stay away from Andy," she snarled, and Sirius smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.

"Sorry, _cousin_. You were never my favourite."

Of all he'd said and done, this new lie hurt the most. Eyes flashing, Bella was about to draw her wand when a reedy voice called, "Black?"

Both of them turned at the same time—of course—to find Professor Sprout hurrying toward them from the staircase, carrying a large potted plant up from the greenhouses. She started, seeing both of them. "Oh, and _Black_! What are you doing here at this hour?"

"I was just leaving, Professor," said Sirius. With a final scornful look at Bellatrix, he hissed so only she could hear, "_Stay indoors tonight_." He hurried off in the direction that Potter had gone some moments earlier.

With Sprout looking at her expectantly, Bellatrix said shakily, "As was I."

The Herbology teacher smiled obliviously and wished Bella a pleasant evening, whistling cheerfully as she turned the corner. "_Shit,_" muttered Bellatrix, Sirius's words playing havoc in her head. She glowered at her shadowed reflection in the mirror.

_The mirror!_

Potter and Sirius had appeared straight through it, as if it were a portal to a passage, but to where?

And all at once, as though the answer had been lurking there in the recesses of her mind all along, waiting to be drawn out at this moment precisely, it came to her.

"'_Reflect the soul and you may pass beneath the gold and through the glass_,'" she quoted softly, staring up at the enormous gold-framed looking-glass with dawning comprehension—it was large enough to walk through. Large enough to be a door. "_'Separate here now bequeaths a door!_'" she finished excitedly. That must be it! _Dissendium_had to be the password for entry into this passageway, marked by the gold and glass of the mirror—but what did 'reflecting the soul' have to do with anything? And if Sirius knew about it…did he send her the riddle, after all? It made no sense.

She unsheathed her wand and pointed it straight at the mirror. "Dissendium," she said carefully, hardly daring to breathe.

Nothing happened.

Perhaps she had to 'reflect the soul' in the process? She had read of scrying in her father's books—the ancient, rather obscure practice of using mirrors to tap into Dark forces in order to see visions or gain power. It was said to require 'purity of soul' from the caster, echoing their own soul back to them—could this be what the riddle meant?

Quickly, she ran over the rest of it. _At stroke of twelve, proceed to four. _She was on the fourth floor now—surely that was its meaning—but was she supposed to come back at midnight? Maybe Sirius and his delinquent friends only knew the passage as an exit, not an entrance, and maybe it was only an entrance at midnight in the first place.

That gave her a little over an hour. Long enough to go to the common room, explain the situation to Rodolphus, and return with a partner for the spell—he loved a challenge, and would surely welcome any chance to be alone with her in a darkened nighttime corridor.

Mind made up, energized with anticipation, she hurried toward the dungeons at last.

"To clarify," said Rodolphus slowly, reclining on a low-backed leather sofa, the sharp angles of his face rendered even sharper in the emerald light of the common room. "An anonymous _someone _sent you a riddle, which you think is meant to open a secret passageway that requires scrying to get inside at midnight, that you just saw your deranged former cousin coming out of, and that you don't know where it leads—and all of this has something to do with Avery's photograph?"

Bellatrix shifted uncomfortably next to him. It sounded ridiculous when he put it like that, but she had been so _sure…_"Yes," she said finally in what she hoped were firm and convincing tones, adding a moment later, "Although I don't know about that last part. The photograph. Tom _Riddle_. It's just…it's too strange to be coincidence." He said nothing, so she pressed on, "I _know_ I'm onto something, Rodolphus. Something big. I know it."

He sat up and said decisively, "Let's go."

She stared at him, puzzled at his turn of conviction. He kissed her. He was warm, and forceful, and tasted as always of peppermint. Not thinking about anyone watching—not thinking at all—she kissed him back.

He pulled away immediately and raised his eyebrows; she pressed her fingers to her lips and gave an accusatory glare. He stood up. "This is exactly the sort of opportunity we've been waiting for, I think. Avery and Mulciber are coming with us."

"What?" Slightly light-headed, she rushed after him, as he was already heading up the stairs toward the boys' dormitories. "No one else needs to know about this, Lestrange! It's_my _riddle!"

He called back without turning around, "It's _ours_ now, and if I know anything about mysterious passageways and vaguely Dark spells, it's that you want a team with you when you deal with them. Salazar only knows what's on the other side of this mirror, and I'm not taking any chances."

"If Potter and the _Gryffindor_ can handle it, so can we!"

"That's exactly what worries me," said Rodolphus, not sounding even remotely worried. "This reeks of a trap. Besides…" He looked down at her as he made to enter the dormitory, smirking at her exasperation. "…Avery is ace at scrying."

Loathe as she was to admit it, he was right.

Avery, whose father was a distinguished member of the Wizengamot and well-versed in obscure magical practices, was intrigued by the prospect, and Mulciber went along with his best friend out of proclaimed boredom, hoping, Bellatrix knew, to find an interesting prospective addition to their erstwhile Dark Arts plan. When the four of them arrived back at the fourth floor mirror together, the corridor had thankfully remained deserted, all the portraits snoring softly. With fifteen minutes to midnight, Avery got to work.

"What is he doing, exactly?" Bellatrix whispered doubtfully as the haughty dark-skinned boy began to utter strange foreign chants, going into a trance of sorts as his long fingers ran over the mirror, leaving glowing blue embers in their wake.

"Scrying," Mulciber whispered back, fascinated. "It should give him a vision, turn the mirror into a portal. He told me stories, but I never believed he—look!" Avery's reflection in the mirror appeared to have separated from his physical body—while the boy in front of them remained still, eyes closed and both hands glowing on the mirror, the boy in the mirror stepped back, looking around at them all with eyes wide open, blank and entranced, glowing with bright blue fire.

"His soul," breathed Rodolphus. "It's beckoning us." Sure enough, Mirror-Avery was motioning them closer, and one by one, they stepped up beside Avery and laid their own hands on the mirror. As Bella's fingers touched the glass, they, too, were engulfed in the cold blue fire—and the castle clock struck midnight.

She and Rodolphus looked at each other, and with one hand still on the mirror, drew their wands together. As they each breathed _dissendium_, this time the glass dissolved at once into shining crystal fire, flashing and flickering before them. Their hands fell through into cold, empty space: the mirror had become a door of icy flame. Wondering, one by one they stepped through it, and as Avery was pulled through last, the blue glow disappeared immediately, swallowing them up in darkness.

"Well, _that _was strange," came Mulciber's mocking voice from somewhere in the cold, black emptiness. Bellatrix stumbled backward into something warm and firm; it held her close, protectively—Rodolphus.

"_Lumos_, anyone?" His face was illuminated suddenly by wandlight, and the rest of them immediately followed suit.

"Where are we?" said Avery shakily, his voice lacking its customary arrogant sheen. His eyes were their usual brown again, and his hands were no longer glowing, but the process of projecting his soul into a mirror seemed to have exhausted him; he leaned on Mulciber, barely standing.

Bella swept their new surroundings quickly. They were in a narrow, rocky passage that appeared to fork. One path led in the direction of the lake—the Whomping Willow? Students often speculated about secret passageways beneath it—and the other the opposite way, toward what she could only assume was Hogsmeade. "This way," she said decisively, stepping toward the latter path. Shrugging, the others followed her.

Rodolphus murmured low in her ear, "Are you certain?"

She nodded steadfastly. "I don't know how, but I am." Every hair on her arms was standing up, her skin tingling faintly, black hair seeming to whip around her of its own accord, and something powerful and deep within her was being driven, slowly, to the surface. "Do you feel it?" she asked Rodolphus breathlessly, shivering. "All around us."

He smiled his sharp-edged smile, understanding, and took her hand—her skin quivered at the touch. "Magic. And not the kind they teach in class." Sirius's voice rose, unbidden, to her mind. _There's Dark magic in the air._

The rocky passage continued for what felt like ages, rising and falling, the initial huge, airy walkway growing narrower and narrower as they went, until they were forced to fall into single-file, hunching over and finally outright crawling, hands and knees scraping painfully on the rock-strewn dirt as they struggled to keep their wands lit. More than once Avery and even Mulciber suggested that they should turn back, but Rodolphus and Bellatrix shut these protests down, and the four of them pressed onward, until all at once the passageway came to an end, and they were standing—weary and dishevelled—in an enormous, open room, walls cut of smoother, darker rock.

"A cave," said Mulciber disbelievingly. "All that for a _cave_."

Rodolphus was already pacing its parameters, touching the walls, looking out the opening into the empty, starry night sky, surrounded by dark trees. "Caves are never only caves, not here—and this one's big enough to fit several dozen more of us inside."

"I didn't know there were caves in Hogsmeade," said Avery, leaning back against the stone, fatigued.

"There aren't," said Bellatrix. How far must they be from the castle? She looked more closely at the rough stone walls. Was it her imagination, or were there carvings there, lurking in the shadows—drawings, runes? She shivered a little, feeling the darkness of the cave pressing in on her with increasing urgency. There was old magic here: the place was wild with it.

"Over here," called Rodolphus from the far, shadowed side, halting his exploration to bend over something on the ground. "Whoever led us here seems to have left…a present."

It was a large glass bottle filled with a clear shimmering liquid, labelled—in the same elegant scrawl as the riddle—as _basilisk venom_. They all stared, stunned.

"Is it…I mean, is it _really_?" Bella managed. Basilisks hadn't existed since the time of Salazar Slytherin himself—he had commanded the last King of Serpents, but it had died with him, the stories said, and none were alive today—but of course, there were no other Parselmouths, either.

"Drink it and find out," taunted Mulciber, but he looked discomfited in spite of himself, and added, to no one, "Someone's sick idea of a joke."

"If so, they've gone to outrageous lengths for it—have a look at what else our mystery benefactor left us." Rodolphus held up a frayed, ancient spellbook, opened to reveal images so shocking and ghastly that Bella gasped. Eyes fixated, unable to look away, she studied them: the figures on these pages went far beyond the most macabre textbook illustration, or the worst pictures Bellatrix had ever seen in stolen visits to the Family library. The spellwork shown here was _truly_ Dark—no child's imitation.

"What is this book?" Avery asked faintly, and Rodolphus held up the spine to the light. _Magicke Moste Eville_, it read, _by Godelot._

"Well the extra E's certainly do add a touch of class to the proceedings," said Mulciber, bright green eyes dancing.

"This is nothing we'd find in the Restricted Section, or even at home," said Bellatrix, a note of awe creeping into her voice at the thrill of such forbidden knowledge being_handed _to her. "This is real."

"It's the old stuff," said Rodolphus, flipping through tattered pages with interest. "Blood magic. And yeah—'venom of the Serpent King' is mentioned often."

"Someone got us started for a spell," said Avery warily. "And what, I wonder, will we be needing a spell like that for tonight?"

A chill swept through them all: the cave seemed colder, deadlier somehow, and somewhere in the distance, there came a long, inhuman howl. It was then that Bellatrix remembered the rest of the riddle.

"_'Learn your art by second hour,'_" she quoted, soft voice echoing in the hollow cave, "_'or by the moon they will devour_.'" The three boys glanced at each other. "Rodolphus," she said quietly, "what time is it?"

He did a quick spell calculation. "Two in the morning. Exactly."

Bellatrix looked out the entrance to the cave at the dark forest beyond, full moon glittering in the distance. "We've learned no art," she murmured, "but the second hour is here." For the first time in as long as she could remember, she felt fear.

"We should go," Avery spoke up tautly. "Leave these ancient places to the dead." Bella glanced at the tunnel opening leading back to Hogwarts, to warmth and safety behind castle walls. _Stay indoors tonight_, Sirius had warned, but what did a _Gryffindor _know of basilisks and blood magic?

"We've come this far," Rodolphus reasoned firmly, speaking her thoughts as always. "We're not turning back now. Are you Heir to the House of Avery, or a frightened child, afraid of what lurks in the Dark?"

"You don't know what I saw!" said Avery angrily. "My vision, at the mirror—my father—my _sister_—"

"Altair," Mulciber breathed softly, and Avery began to round on his best friend instead—but fell abruptly silent with dread when he followed Mulciber's wide-eyed gaze.

Seven massive wolves had appeared at the entrance to the cave, and began to encircle it, one blocking the tunnel opening with a sharp-toothed snarl and another—a huge, scarred grey wolf that seemed to be their leader—backing the four students into the farthest wall. They were trapped.

Heart racing, Bella glanced around at her companions, all of whom wore identical expressions of dawning terror. These were no ordinary wolves. "Oh gods," she whispered._Werewolves._

"The gods won't save you now, pretty little girl." The grey wolf had transformed—_how? _she thought desperately; what sort of werewolves had the ability to _control_ their transformations—into a greying, shaggy man with pointed brown teeth and sores on the sides of his face, smelling strongly of dirt, sweat, and blood. He spoke directly to her now, in a horrible, rasping bark of a voice, dragging one long yellowed fingernail down her cheek. "Scream for them, though, when I take you—gods know I love the screams."

There was a furious shout, a bright flash, then a pained moan—Rodolphus had attempted to attack, only to be physically thrown backward like a rag doll, slamming into the cave wall and collapsing in a heap to the floor, right shoulder torn open and bleeding.

The grey wolf licked his lips, watching. "Anyone else care to try fighting?" Behind him, the other wolves, too, had shifted forms, and seven savage humans stood before them now, nearly naked but for furs and skins, some holding long, curved spears. They were vicious, primal, _terrifying. _The tall, fierce red-haired woman guarding the tunnel opening looked at Bella with bright yellow eyes and smiled. There was blood on her teeth.

No one moved.

"Good," grinned the grey wolf. "We prefer prey to struggle as we eat it, not before." Slowly, locking eyes with him and refusing to flinch away, Bellatrix reached underneath her skirt to where her sheath was fastened to her thigh: she drew out not a wand, but her small silver knife.

The wolves all laughed, seeing it—it was without a doubt the most chilling sound she'd ever heard. "Oh, girlie wants a tussle, Greyback," laughed the red-haired female in a cruel, jagged voice. "I say we give her one."

"Gladly," leered the grey wolf—Greyback—stepping toward her with a sharp-toothed grin, backing her further into the wall, groaning, "Wants you for himself, he does, but you're mine, now—such pretty white flesh…" Rodolphus was screaming from the corner, restrained by two muscled men, the wolves were jeering, everyone was shouting—Bellatrix closed her eyes, images of agony from the diagrams in the ancient Dark spellbook flashing behind her eyelids, and brought down the silver knife with a shuddering cry.

It slashed open her left arm—once, twice, three times—until her sleeve was soaked red with blood, dripping crimson to the stone floor, glinting black in the moonlight.

The wolves stared, surprised and unnerved. "She tryin' to kill herself?" hissed one, and another replied, "Doin' a bloody poor job of it." The scent of fresh blood called to them—they were all closing in, hungry, preparing to shift again, to tear her to pieces—but she ignored them, growing dizzy with blood loss and concentrating on the small puddle of her own blood forming at her feet. It was soaking into the stone cavern like water into dirt.

Rodolphus was the first to realize. "Bella, to me!" he called, wrenching away from his captors, and she threw the knife. He caught it immediately with fine-tuned Keeper reflexes and dug it into his own, already bloodied shoulder, throwing himself to the ground and tossing the knife to Mulciber, who did the same, before passing it to Avery. In seconds they were all dripping Pure blood, and the cave was _humming _as it lapped it up, seeming to emit a strange, reddish glow. The blood smell soaked the air.

Greyback growled, wrapping his hands around Bella's throat and shoving her against the cave wall. The hum increased in volume as her body touched it, and her eyelids flickered as she smiled a slow, lazy smile, feeling the power of the stone enter her in exchange for the blood. Though she didn't fully comprehend what was happening, with the images from the book and a sudden rush of clarity washing over her, she understood enough. The magic in their blood was life, and you had to sacrifice life to gain power. _Life for life. _That was the old way, and Black blood was oldest.

"What do you think you're playing at, girl?" snarled the werewolf, shaking her, squeezing.

"REMOVE YOUR HANDS!" she intoned, voice gone somehow louder, stronger, vibrating through the cavern walls—the blood magic had filled her now, and in the next instant Greyback was flung across the cave, sprawling, without Bellatrix lifting even a finger.

She laughed, a high-pitched, frightening sound, foreign to her ears. Her wand was still strapped against her leg, but she had no need of it now: all the power she needed was already underneath her skin, rushing madly through her veins, tapped into some ancient, primal force that had nothing to do with waving a wooden stick and dutifully reciting spells. The burning inferno of Dark energy she hadn't known was buried deep within her had broken through the surface and threatened to consume her entirely; it was volatile, uncontrollable—when she turned blazing eyes on each wolf in turn as they lunged at her, they flew back, whimpering.

She looked around at Rodolphus, Mulciber, and Avery, and gasped. They, too, had been imbued with the magic, and she could see their veins _shining _beneath skin gone translucent. Mulciber had opened the bottle of basilisk venom and was sending it twisting out of the glass, flying in snake-like tendrils toward the werewolves—it burned and singed where it touched their fur, the creatures howling piteously—as Rodolphus read off enchantments from the book. Avery looked up from where he'd slaughtered a brown wolf and shouted her name, throwing her back the silver knife. Bellatrix tossed it at once at the heart of red-furred female wolf still guarding the tunnel with more force than she'd ever had. Cygnus had trained her well: it struck true, and she collapsed immediately, turning back into the red-haired woman as she died.

That was three wolves dead, and the remaining four backed away warily, retreating and called to heel by Greyback, who remained a man. He looked straight at her, yellow eyes gone dark with anger. "We'll meet again, girl." A flash of grey and he was gone, disappeared into the woods as quick as he came. With the werewolves gone, the cave fell silent again.

The four of them stared at each other, unable to believe what had just happened, feeling the powerful blood magic surging through their bodies fade slowly into ordinary blood, and then they were just bleeding, and injured, and cold—not great Dark sorcerers, not wolf-killers, just hurt, uniformed schoolchildren, out of bed after hours.

Mulciber—still holding the half-empty bottle of basilisk venom, looking around at the three savaged beast corpses—began to laugh, choking out, "We—Salazar help me, do you even _realize_—we just fought off werewolves! _Werewolves_!"

Shaken, barely able to stand, Bellatrix said weakly, half to herself, "It was inside of me…the Dark…" Rodolphus rushed to her, ripping strips off his own robe to staunch her bloody arm, and she fell against him, dizzied.

"They knew we would be here," said Avery in a low, shockingly composed voice, staring at his own blood-covered hands. "This was a trap."

Rodolphus looked up with a peculiar, scorching look. A wolf had scratched at his throat, and there was a long, red cut from chin to collarbone. It would scar. "Not a trap," he said, voice clear and commanding in the dark cave. "A test." He looked around at them all, bloodied and shaken but very, very alive. "And I'm fairly certain," he finished, quieter, mouth twisting into a smile sharp as the bloodied knife in Bella's hand, "that we passed."

* * *

Two days later, Slytherin beat Ravenclaw in the most anticipated Quidditch match of the season.

They spoke, in hushed tones across the castle, of the Slytherin captain's frightening new scar, wrapping across his throat like the burns from a hangman's noose. They said, afterward, that no team had ever played as brutally as Slytherin that day; that Ravenclaw had forfeited the match on purpose after four of their best players landed in the hospital wing over the course of ten minutes; that the Slytherins shone murder in their eyes, for what were the rules of Quidditch when you'd already broken the laws of man?

Bellatrix, forbidden to join the Quidditch team as a daughter of the House of Black but finding herself not caring very much about what was or was not illicit to her anymore, heard none of it.

She was waiting for them in the common room when the rest of Slytherin House returned from the match, legs swung casually over an emerald chair, engrossed in what appeared to be an old, tattered copy of the Tales of Beedle the Bard.

"You skipped the game to _read_, Bella?" laughed Andy, twirling around with Evan in his Quidditch gear as someone charmed music, calling for drinks. "You're turning into Regulus!"

"Lucius was magnificent," Cissy exclaimed in her ear over the celebration. "He caught the snitch _ever _so well! I died, I simply _died_—"

In the midst of the excitement, Rabastan was smugly shoving his tongue down Evelyn Bulstrode's throat, while Willa watched from the corner with red-rimmed eyes.

But Bella was interested in only one victorious Quidditch player, and when she and Rodolphus locked eyes across the crowded common room, all the rest seemed to fall silent at once. She stood up slowly and gave a lazy smile; he immediately pressed her down again, and kissed her fiercely enough to take her breath away.

When they were able to breathe again, half the common room was staring, most Slytherin enough to keep their thoughts from their expression, wearing masks of amused indifference, but others ranging in reaction from Narcissa's embarrassed, scandalized expression to Willa's clearly burning envy. In the sudden quiet, Mulciber—wearing a brown wolfspaw on his left Quidditch boot—rolled his eyes and broke open a bottle of firewhiskey with a sardonic toast: "To the happy couple. May your knives be ever sharp." Bella and Rodolphus laughed loudly amidst the resulting confused murmurs, and even Avery allowed a thin smile.

As the victory party resumed, Rodolphus and Bellatrix resumed making use of the chair, until each was squirming with the desire to retreat into the dormitories but too stubborn to be the first to move. "How's your arm?" breathed Rodolphus, fingers sliding into places that were decisively not the injured body part.

She pinned his own arms down against the chair, twisting around so that she was on top of him and hoping Narcissa wasn't watching; Druella would be horrified. "Better," she smirked, nibbling at the scar on his throat. "And better yet, guess what came unsigned by mysterious black owl this evening?" She revealed a crisp white envelope; he started.

"A new riddle?"

She shrugged, placing it between his lips with her own and releasing his arms. "Something like that."

He scanned it quickly. "_'Look for the Knight in the forests of the Night.'_ Interesting. Sounds simple enough."

"This isn't over yet," promised Bella. "We have plenty more limbs to lose." She leaned in to kiss him again but was distracted suddenly by the pale gaze of Lucius Malfoy, leaning against the fireplace across the room and staring at them intently. He raised a glass to her when she noticed him, smiling mockingly, and turned at once to resume conversation with Walden Macnair. "He knows something," she murmured as Rodolphus discreetly traced circles around her skin.

"_We_ now know a great many somethings," said Rodolphus, low and insistent into her mouth, "and Lucius Malfoy is currently the least of our problems."

It was true, she reflected under the fading light of the green fireplace, after everyone else had finally trickled off to sleep and she and Rodolphus remained alone in the empty common room, discovering, to their immense pleasure, that it was entirely possible for their second time together to be even more explosive and earth-shattering than the first.

Whatever might come, _whoever_ might come—they'd be ready.


	4. Walpurgis Night

**DARK**  
Chapter IV – "Walpurgis Night"

* * *

**HOGWARTS – **April 1974

Four dozen or so sapphire-blue envelopes, each adorned with the recipient's name in garish gold and sealed with a great waxen _S_, were delivered by miniature snowy owl in the midst of breakfast one rainy April morning—all the better for the rest of the school, poor unfavoured nobodies, to see what they were missing—and the students honoured with one of these ostentatious invitations opened them carefully under the watchful gaze of a thousand curious eyes:

_Masks, my dear revellers, hide who we are. So long as they disguise us, they mark a loss of our previous identity and the assuming of a new one. A mask allows you to become who you wish to be._

_You are all no doubt aware of the stories behind Walpurgis Night, or _Walpurgisnacht—_in the old tales, this magical night, the 1st of May, was once a time when the boundary between our world and that of the spirits grew thin, and when masked witches and wizards met to hold revels with the pagan gods. Marked by dancing and bonfires, these masked revelries were legendary throughout the land._

_It is with this long and lavish history in mind that I present to you the theme of this year's Spring Slug Club Party: a masquerade, calling to mind these mysterious celebrations of old. Come disguised, and prepare to mingle—the festivities last till dawn._

_Yours in carousing,_

_Prof. Horace E.F. Slughorn_

"Typical," sniffed Altair Avery, dropping the invitation with a distasteful grimace. "The social-climbing clown thinks he can elevate his status by alluding to powerful forces beyond his grasp. Does he think inviting the sons of the Knights of Walpurgis to his little Slug party will get a bloated half-blood like _him_ a membership? Hardly."

Rodolphus grinned, not having bothered to open the invitation in the first place. "The day Horace Slughorn accepts his sorry bourgeois lot in life is the day you stop being a pretentious little shit, mate."

Avery rolled his eyes, supremely disdainful, and Wilkes—as he alone in their group had not received an envelope—jumped in brightly, overcompensating as always, "It's ironic, though, right? The theme, I mean. Muggles used to burn witches in bonfires to recall Walpurgis Night, didn't they? For consorting with the devil—"

"No one cares about your Muggle devil, Wilkes," said Rodolphus dismissively, "and we all know about the Muggle persecution, why do you think we've been under the Statute of Secrecy for a thousand years? What no one's _supposed _to know about is the Knights."

"You're all idiots," Mulciber broke in over a mouthful of food, brandishing a sausage as a sword. "The Knights have bigger fairies to fly, remember? They don't give a damn about some petty Hogwarts theme party…conveniently enough." He looked around at them all meaningfully, lowering his voice in the crowded Great Hall. "I say we go ahead with the Walpurgis Night plan. Shake things up a little—or a lot—now that we _really _can. This stupid masquerade party's a great cover, literally, and…"

He paused, surprised, at the sudden entrance of an oddly flustered Evan Rosier rushing toward them and sliding quickly into the Slytherin table. "I just saw myfather, here in the castle," he said in a low voice. "Talking with Dumbledore. Something's happened, something big, everyone's bound to know once—" In the next second, the Hall was filled with the flurry of hundreds of owls baring letters, papers, and parcels, and Evan finished weakly, "—the mail arrives."

Bellatrix immediately put down the Godelot book—disguised today as an old Charms textbook—and seized The Daily Prophet.

_**CHIEF WARLOCK OF THE WIZENGAMOT MISSING, LEAVING ONLY GHASTLY SYMBOL BEHIND**_

_LONDON—A mysterious disappearance within the Wizengamot itself seems an ill omen in the wake of last week's divisive ruling striking down the controversial Act for the Preservation of Wizarding Strength and Security after months of debate and tension. Chief Warlock Malcolm MacDougal, 64, was reported missing from his Southampton home last night by his wife, who appeared to have undergone a Memory Charm. Foul play is suspected by the Magical Law Enforcement Officers sent to survey the scene, and all magical efforts to find or contact him since have proved unsuccessful._

_Nobby Leach, Minister for Magic, has declined to release a statement following this disturbing turn of events. When asked to comment in his stead, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement Damien Rosier assured the public that a team of Aurors is attempting to locate MacDougal and bring any perpetrators of potential violence or kidnapping to justice. When asked whether there was any truth to persistent rumours that MacDougal's disappearance is the work of an underground terrorist organization, Rosier gave a curt dismissal: "The Ministry is not interested in trite, hysterical gossip or the politics of paranoia."_

_Behind the Ministry's own gilded doors, however, some employees tell a different tale. Our sources talk of widespread panic and resignations in the Ministry as many speculate that MacDougal's disappearance is indeed intended as a warning by angry supporters of the Act he struck down, who may now be threatening to target the Ministry itself in the wake of so many recent Muggle attacks._

_Seeming to support these fears was the strange, macabre symbol MacDougal supposedly left behind—a chilling aspect of the case hushed up by the Ministry. An employee of the Auror Office, speaking on condition of anonymity, reveals that the image of an enormous glittering skull devouring a snake was discovered hovering above MacDougal's empty house. According to our source, the symbol has been connected to a new radical Pureblood supremacist group calling itself 'The Death Eaters.'_

_The Wizengamot has named Albus Dumbledore—Headmaster of Hogwarts and a known Muggle rights activist—as interim Chief Warlock in MacDougal's absence._

"So someone's raised the stakes," said Rodolphus quietly as they all finished reading and looked up, stunned. "Progressing from attacking common Muggles to the highest-ranking member of the Wizengamot in a single stroke—I can't tell if it's genius or madness. Probably both."

The rest of the Hall was now abuzz with frenzied, panicked chatter, and a small Ravenclaw girl—MacDougal's granddaughter—was crying. The Headmaster's chair was conspicuously empty…Dumbledore was no doubt still meeting with Damien, and this new development certainly explained his presence in the school.

"But it doesn't make sense," said Bellatrix intently, chewing her lip in concentration. "Why would a supremacist group attack a Pureblood, which MacDougal _is_, by the way, and probably a Knight besides—" She stopped abruptly with a staggering jolt of understanding. _Look for the Knight…_

Not noticing her sudden silence or widened eyes, Avery cut in, "But he didn't pass the Act, and we all know how hard the Knights had to have been pushing that through. If he defied them…" He trailed off, looking vaguely distraught. His father, Bella remembered, was also a high-ranking member of the Wizengamot—albeit one who had voted firmly in favour of the Act.

"No," said Evan decisively, still flustered after his unexpected encounter with his father, whom everyone knew he both idolized and deeply feared the disapproval of. "The Knights aren't extremists—they'd never resort to terrorism."

Avery shook his head. "I used to say the same, but now? I'm not so sure."

Evan scoffed, "Our fathers_—_"

"It's your father I'm interested in, Rosier," interrupted Rodolphus. "He has to know a lot more than he's telling the Prophet."

"As if he'd tell me, I'm not even of age—does _your _father confide all his business to you?"

"Shut _up,_ all of you!" said Mulciber, green eyes piercing in exasperation. They all fell silent, even Rodolphus—Mulciber's uncanny powers of persuasion were renowned for a reason. "Listen. This on top of Sluggy's Walpurgis party? We couldn't have thought up a better opportunity ourselves. We've had that _book_ for over a week now, we have_basilisk venom_, we've _killed werewolves_—we'll never be more ready than we are now, and guess who'll take the blame if we time this right? Not us, that's for damn sure."

"No," snorted Rodolphus, "only _all _our fathers—"

Bellatrix sat in silence, thinking. Mulciber was voicing her own thoughts of only a few months ago, but things were different now. She knew, with every fibre of her being, that whoever had led them to the spellbook and the venom didn't intend for them to be used on a schoolboy prank. And if her hunch was correct, and the 'Knight' of her latest riddle was in fact MacDougal, she had far more compelling plans on Walpurgis Night: searching for the missing Chief Warlock in the forests near the castle. Whether he was a victim or a co-conspirator, everything seemed to indicate that he was next to play a crucial role in the manipulations of whoever was sending her the riddles she was becoming increasingly obsessed with.

Perhaps, she thought wildly, MacDougal had even sent them himself. What if these _tests_ were directly from the Knights, challenging their children to prove themselves worthy? True, she was a girl, and would never be allowed to join under ordinary circumstances, but maybe someone, someone powerful (could it even be…the Family?) had finally realized _her_ potential, _her _worth…and she would show them…

"—don't be a bloody fool," Rodolphus was arguing.

But Mulciber's expression was hardened, stubborn. The fight with the wolves had made him bold. "Fine. If the rest of you are backing out, we'll find someone else to play with, won't we, Altair?" Avery looked down at his plate, uncomfortable, but jerked his head slightly in what might have been a nod—he was, as always, loyal to his lifelong best friend to a fault. Mulciber smiled, satisfied, and pointed to the opposite end of the table, where Lucius Malfoy was holding court over his own rival gang. His eyes rested on the scowling, hook-nosed 5th-year to Lucius's left: Severus Snape. "Malfoy's pet half-blood is all about a little Mudblood action—two knuts says _he's _not all talk, and knows more Dark spells than all of you combined." Tossing his silverware down with a clatter, Mulciber stormed out of the Great Hall, and with a quick, apologetic look, Avery followed.

"He's going to get himself killed," muttered Rodolphus, "if he's not thrown into Azkaban first."

Bellatrix said nothing, glancing over at Evan and recalling their talk of war and revolution in a parlour room so many weeks ago…her cousin met her gaze with a strained grimace, and she knew that he, too, remembered.

It had begun.

* * *

The sun was setting over Hogwarts when Rodolphus found her sitting by the lake's edge, watching the sky split into bloody streaks of red reflected across still, mirror-like water.

She stood at his approach, admiring the way the darkening sky cast stark shadows across his face, sharpening his cheekbones and lending a dangerous glint to his eyes. "You came."

"So will you," he smirked, stepping very close and holding up the note she'd slipped into his robes at supper, asking him to meet her by the lake at sunset. "A little public, don't you think? Not that I'm complaining."

Bella rolled her eyes as he shoved her backwards, imprisoning her against the tree she'd been sitting against, warm fingers reaching underneath her robes as the sun sank below the horizon. "I didn't get you alone to _shag_, Lestrange," she snapped, breathing somewhat unevenly now as she attempted to disentangle herself. "I solved the new riddle, at breakfast—" She broke off, gasping, as he did something with his fingers that hurt and made her light-headed with pleasure at the same time.

"So did I," he said impatiently, licking the curve between her neck and shoulder. "MacDougal's the missing Knight, so we find him in the forest on Walpurgis Night. I _said _it was simple. Is that all?"

"But it's _not _simple," she said incredulously, trying to focus. "There are larger forces at work here, we should pre—_ah_—prepare!"

"Whatever will the Forbidden Forest throw at us?" he laughed, pressing harder. "_Werewolves?_ I'm shaking."

"Stop it!" she said harshly, breaking away with considerable effort. "You'd think we didn't almost _die_, the way you and Mulciber are acting! We still don't know what happened in that cave, just as we don't know who's sending these riddles—whoever it is _knew _MacDougal would disappear! Exactly whose string are we on, Rodolphus? Why us, why_now_? We should know what game we're playing before we count our winnings!"

"Trust me," he said insistently, ignoring her angry glare and smoothing back a wild strand of hair. "Like I trusted you, in the cave. I've been thinking—"

"Oh, how novel."

"—and I think I understand this particular game better than you do." Was he _patronising _her? She gritted her teeth and started to demand elaboration, but he silenced her with a rough kiss and her body responded traitorously. "Go to the masquerade with me," he gasped into her mouth as her fingers worked beneath his trousers. "We'll dance before we play."

Bellatrix smiled sweetly and gave a cruel tug before stepping back quickly, regaining control by leaving him wincing and panting. "No," she said simply, turning to go. "I _don't_trust you, Lestrange, and if you'd rather grope than talk you can play with yourself."

He made a noise in his throat somewhere between laughter and a growl. "Maybe I'll take Celia Selwyn, then."

He might as well have slapped her. Bellatrix stopped walking without turning around, standing very still in the sudden silence and breaking it finally with three even, preternaturally calm words.

"Maybe you will."

She left him standing alone by the darkened lakeside, and hoped the Giant Squid would eat him for dessert.

* * *

Walpurgis Night arrived sooner than any of them thought possible, and with it all the faux-glamour of the controversial spring Slug Club party.

Slughorn's spacious office had been transformed for the night into a gaudy masque chamber, draped with elaborate, pointedly inoffensive wall hangings in every House colour and bathed in the golden glow of hundreds of real fairies held in glittering lamps suspended from the ceiling. Enchanted harp music drifted through the air as house elves waited upon students and prestigious guests alike, with a thinly-disguised Slughorn bustling about in the midst of it all showing off Quidditch stars, entertainers, and other famous connections like a proud, portly walrus.

The majority of the guests seemed to be enjoying themselves well enough; some were plainly in awe. To the privileged children of the Pureblood elite, however—veterans of lavish balls since birth—the garishness was vaguely embarrassing, and most of them sneered behind their masks.

"There you are," came a warm, rough voice in her ear, hands wrapping possessively around her waist, and Bellatrix turned from where she'd been quietly sipping oak-matured spiced mead in a secluded corner to find a handsome, dark-haired boy in a frightening red and black devil's mask smirking slightly, blue eyes flickering downward to her considerable cleavage: Rodolphus. "I've been looking for you everywhere."

"Are you certain I'm the one you want?" Bella gave a small smile behind her own emerald-encrusted mask and gently removed his hands from her waist, fingers lightly grazing his own. "Masks can be so…deceptive."

"Celia, darling…" He twirled her around as he led her commandingly onto the dance floor. "I am very, _very _certain."

Bellatrix tossed her blonde hair, twisted her soft features into another docile smile, and tugged impatiently at her tight, corseted bodice. It had been simple enough to acquire the Polyjuice potion (in Slytherin, all manner of illegal substances were available with the utmost discretion, for a price) and slip a sleeping drought into Celia Selwyn's tea at precisely the right moment—unbeknownst to all, the stupid slut would spend the party passed out behind closed bed curtains, awakening in the morning with no memory of the night before…and meanwhile, Bella was here to ensure her reputation would be ruined and in shambles by midnight.

No one slept with Bellatrix Black's boyfriend—_former_, she reminded herself, seething—and got away with it.

"Bellatrix doesn't mind that I'm here with you?" she asked coyly as they began a slow waltz.

"Whether she minds or not is of no concern to me," said Rodolphus, sounding bored, but she noticed his eyes sweeping the room, uneasy behind the mask—looking for her? Ha. He'd be sorely disappointed.

"Do you remember that night under the Quidditch pitch last term?" she murmured in what she hoped was a seductive tone. "I haven't been able to forget it."

Rodolphus laughed arrogantly. "No, I'd imagine you haven't." Bella forced herself to smile once more. _Oh, revenge will be so sweet._

She pressed herself flush against him, Celia's obscenely large breasts nearly spilling out of the corseted gown. "Take me again, tonight," she whispered in his ear. "Meet me in the Potions closet in twenty minutes; I'll be naked, and you had better be, too."

"Here?" breathed Rodolphus, eyes gone wide with lust.

"Here," she assured him in Celia's little trill of a voice, throwing in a high-pitched giggle for good measure. "I don't care who knows…or hears."

The waltz came to an end, and Bellatrix gave him one last flirtatious wink before disappearing back into the crowd. The trap was set—but before she could humiliate Rodolphus, it was time to disgrace Celia.

With the masque in full swing now, students seemed to be pairing off in earnest, some retreating to darkened corners and others starting to dance as the music began anew. Bella noticed Sirius—unmasked, ever the rebel—slouching in the corner with his merry little band of blood-traitors and half-bloods, laughing loudly at something the Mudblood Lily Evans had just said. She gritted her teeth and immediately turned toward the opposite direction, only to crash headlong into Lucius Malfoy, resplendently ridiculous in an intricate white peacock mask and displaying Narcissa, of all girls, on his arm.

"Too much mead, Celia?" drawled Lucius, smoothing his hair back into place and looking her over, coldly amused.

All things considered, Bellatrix thought it best to encourage this line of thought. "Not nearly enough," she slurred prettily, suppressing her internal revulsion enough to trail a suggestive finger up his white lapel. "Perhaps you could find me some more?"

"Perhaps _you _could find yourself some class," sniffed Narcissa, venom dripping from every word, blue eyes narrowed in dislike. Being on the receiving end of Cissy's vicious ice queen act was unpleasant, to say the least, but Bellatrix still felt a warm surge of affection toward her sister for hating Celia Selwyn on principle—it was all she could do to save her from Malfoy's oily clutches.

Sparing Narcissa a pitying glance, she leaned toward Malfoy and smiled knowingly, twirling a long blonde wave between her fingers. "Can your new toy keep up, Lucius? I know how demanding you are."

Malfoy looked sideways at Cissy, who'd gone dangerously tense. Chilly demeanour ruffled slightly, he sneered, "Unlike you, Narcissa's no toy." Bellatrix almost burst out laughing—Celia _had _shagged Malfoy, too, then. The incorrigible harlot.

"Let's dance," suggested Cissy with icy courtesy, refusing to pay Celia another glance. They slithered away onto the dance floor, with Bella calling after Malfoy, "But Lucius, this _toy_ still works—care to use me again?"

Several surrounding guests were laughing, and in the next instant, someone was seizing Bellatrix by the arm and dragging her away from the crowd, hissing, "Celia, what is_wrong_ with you?"

Bellatrix studied her captor—an impossibly attractive dark-skinned girl with a mass of perfectly coifed curls and a golden mask revealing luminous brown eyes so light they were almost gold themselves: Altair's younger sister, the famously beautiful Alana Avery. Half the boys of Hogwarts were in love with her on any given day, and Bella caught several stopping to stare as she passed. Celia, she took great pleasure in noting, must look positively plain in comparison.

"Do you have any idea what people are saying?" Alana was demanding in her low, silky voice, a bored half-smile frozen on her face for the benefit of any onlookers. Like her brother, Alana was the consummate Slytherin. "Dancing with Rodolphus Lestrange, then throwing yourself at Malfoy, so drunk you can hardly stand—Celia, if Nott hears about this—"

"Nott?" Bellatrix repeated dumbly. _Theodore _Nott, of the Auror Department? She knew him vaguely as a stern, greying, humourless man that Damien delighted in antagonizing—what in Salazar's name did _he_ have to do with Celia Selwyn?

Alana seemed to take Bella's confusion as distress, and her customarily cold expression softened slightly. "I know the engagement's been hard on you," she said quietly. She took the hands of the girl she thought was her friend, the warm, comforting action appearing somewhat foreign to her. "I know you must be tempted to…live it up at Hogwarts while you can. But think of your family—your father could lose his job if this falls through. You can't afford to gamble your reputation with the wedding in a year."

Bellatrix was momentarily stunned into silence. Cygnus's voice echoed in her head: _I have failed to sufficiently impress your duty upon you. _She imagined Celia—stupid, vain, flirty, giggling Celia—sold in a loveless arranged marriage to grim, grey-haired Theodore Nott by graduation, saving her family by doing her _duty, _and remembered the real Celia, passed out in her dormitory, oblivious to the world.

Bizarrely, Bella found she'd lost her appetite for revenge.

"Alana, I—"

"Ah, Miss Avery, is that you?" Slughorn was waddling towards them, accompanied by a tall, thin man in expensive crimson robes that he introduced to Alana (while pointedly ignoring "Celia") as Libatius Borage, author of _Advanced Potion-Making_. "I've told Libatius all about your deft hand at Potions! Come, you simply must have a drink with us, Miss Evans has already agreed—"

Alana looked to Bellatrix, thin lines of worry creasing her otherwise flawless face. Bella ran over the options: she could say something cruel, horrible, destroy Celia's friendship with Alana forever; she could cause an embarrassing scene, burst into tears… "Go," she heard herself say calmly. "I'll be fine." And with one last lingering look of concern, Alana went.

Dazed, Bellatrix watched from across the room as Lucius Malfoy spun a laughing, blushing Cissy one more time around the dance floor before kissing her hand and leaving her to whisper delightedly with Claudia and Clara. Where, she thought fleetingly, was Andromeda, to put an end to this where Bella couldn't? Now that she thought of it, the middle Black sister hadn't been spotted all night—if she _was_ here, Andy was certainly taking the 'disguise' theme to extreme measures…though, it had to be admitted, so was Bellatrix.

But the Polyjuice would wear off soon, and even if—she set her jaw tightly—she was apparently unable (or worse, _unwilling_) to follow through with disgracing Celia, it wasn't too late to do the same to Rodolphus. Putting sisterly concerns aside for the time being, she strode over to where Head Girl Margeurite Midgens—an incredibly unfortunate-looking Mudblood that Rodolphus and his gang mocked mercilessly at every opportunity—was talking to a Hufflepuff prefect, wearing a large, ill-fitting mask that did nothing to cover up her acne.

"Excuse me, Margeurite," Bella interrupted sweetly, "but I think I just saw someone sneaking into Professor Slughorn's Potions closet. I might have overheard something about stealing gillyweed—" But Midgens was already off, wearing the determined, self-righteous look that always accompanied an exercise of her Head duties. Smiling slightly, Bellatrix followed at a distance.

When the Head Girl flung open the Potions closet door, revealing Rodolphus Lestrange just finishing stripping off his robes and dragging him out in full view of the entire party as he attempted to cover himself with an overlarge Graphorn horn, Bella was hardly the only one laughing. Sirius called out a crude insult from the far corner, and several rival Quidditch players—most of whom were terrified to even look at Rodolphus under ordinary circumstances—taunted and jeered. _Public enough for you, Lestrange? _Bella thought spitefully as Midgen—unable to prevent her ugly face from twisting into a satisfied leer—prevented Rodolphus from throwing his robes back over himself until she had docked fifty points from Slytherin for public indecency.

He glared furiously at "Celia" as he passed; Bellatrix blew him a kiss.

Victory was short-lived, however—no sooner had he stormed out of the room to raucous laughter than there came a terrified, muffled scream and a bright flash from behind one of the sheer draped tents, followed by two masked, cloaked figures hurrying away from the scene and disappearing out the door so quickly no one had time to stop them. Intrigued, Bellatrix followed the rest of the crowd toward the source of the disturbance and discovered a small brunette girl collapsed on the floor, unconscious. Lily Evans was kneeling over her, near tears as she shouted furiously, "Stop them, someone! They tried to—they _hurt_ her, hurt Mary, it was Mulciber and Avery, _I saw them_! STOP THEM!"

Bella's blood went cold as she remembered Mulciber's holiday suggestion: _Mary MacDonald…pretty, outspoken little Mudblood Gryffindor fifth-year…she's perfect. _He had gone ahead and done it after all—or tried.

She spun around and rushed toward the door in the midst of the resulting confused chaos, forcing her way through a faceless sea of masks and out into the dark, quiet dungeon corridor: empty. Mulciber and Avery were nowhere in sight. She was about to go back inside to find Evan, at least, when hushed voices drifted from around the corner, and she crept closer to listen.

"I've told you, it doesn't matter what he wants," came Lucius Malfoy's aristocratic drawl. "I act of my own accord now."

Whoever he was speaking to spoke quieter; Bella strained to hear, making out only snippets. "Your father…betrayal…will never forgive…"

"I _realize _that," said Lucius, impatient now, "and it's my own affair. Are you going to tell me where to find it or not? We're running out of time."

A soft laugh. "_You_ are running out of time, Mr. Malfoy," came the second voice, now louder and horribly familiar. "_I _have all the time in the world."

_Gibbon_. Bellatrix pressed back against the wall, mind racing. Why was the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor talking in hushed tones in the dark with _Malfoy_? What were they discussing? Find _what_?

Malfoy had made some low threat, by the sound of it, and Gibbon was silent for a moment, seeming to mull it over, before he spoke. Bella could almost _hear _the twitchy smile in his voice. "The Forbidden Forest. But it's not for you, you know…so _hurry_." The forest…it was time. And whatever—_whoever_—was in there, Malfoy was searching, too.

She heard his footsteps rushing up the stairs, but before she could even move in the opposite direction, Gibbon had turned the corner and was standing directly behind her, foul breath permeating the air and ruffling the hairs on her neck. Stifling a scream, she whirled around.

"Gi—_Professor! _You startled me."

His beady hazel eyes studied her, betraying no emotion or surprise to find her eavesdropping. It was almost as though he'd been _expecting _her. "Hello, Miss Black."

Bella's eyes widened—had the Polyjuice worn off already? Looking down, she saw it was true: her hair was straight and black again, and the gown that had been so tight on Celia now hung loosely on her, barely covering her own much smaller breasts—flushing, she crossed her arms over her chest in a half-hearted attempt at decency. "I was—looking for some friends—" she said lamely, but he held up a hand to silence her desperate explanation.

"_Go_, Miss Black. Your key awaits...though you may not like all the doors it opens." She wavered, at a loss, wondering what _Gibbon_ had to do with any of this, how much of it he'd planned, what other friends or foes lurked in unexpected shadows—but he was looking at her expectantly, eyes glinting with a strange, almost preternatural shine, and so she thanked him in a whisper and took off after Malfoy.

Halfway down the corridor, she stopped and looked back, unable to resist one question. "Professor…who _are _you?"

He had not moved, and did not so much as twitch now, gazing back at her steadily. "A teacher, Miss Black. No more, no less. Now _run_."

She ran.

A distant cloaked figure—_Malfoy—_was just arriving on the outskirts of the forest as she flew out an unguarded side door of the castle and into the open nighttime air. He looked back once, and might have seen her, before disappearing into the woods. Breathing hard, she sprinted in after him after checking to be sure she wasn't followed, and was soon surrounded by the dense, eerie darkness of the Forbidden Forest.

Bella had delighted, once, in terrifying her sisters and cousins with imaginative tales of the horrors that lurked in the forest, of the goblins and giants and ghosts that waited to prey upon pretty girls who wandered too close to the edge, of the rabid Muggle murderers hiding in the woods, ready to skin little wizards alive to steal their magic. She'd never_believed_ the stories herself, of course—in all honesty, they thrilled her, a little—but wandering it now, alone in the dark, she was beginning to understand, at least, why it was_forbidden. _After rambling through half a dozen thorny paths, stumbling upon three different starry clearings, nearly falling into a small brook, and passing at least seven hundred tall, twisted trees that seemed to whisper at her as she passed and all looked nearly identical in their menace, she was horribly, irrevocably lost.

She twisted her ankle on a tree stump after about twenty minutes of this and collapsed against a tree, cursing. After all her talk to Rodolphus of _understanding the situation_, of_being prepared_, she'd gone running aimlessly into the woods alone in a gown, and had now gotten herself hopelessly turned around, with no Knights in sight. "How could I be so _stupid_?" she nearly screamed at the trees, and _truly _screamed when they answered with far more than a whisper.

"I'onno, sweetheart…didn't no one ever tell you not to wander the woods alone?"

She struggled up, scrambling for her wand, but they were on her in an instant: two human men in roughspun clothes, appearing out of the darkness like shadows. One—a bearded, muscular man with a scar searing through one eyelid—dragged her to her feet, ripping the gown in the process, and held her against the tree, baring yellowed teeth that reminded her sickeningly of the grey wolf. _Not sharp, _she thought madly. _At least his aren't sharp._

The other—his slimmer, less brutal-looking companion—immediately seized her wand. She struggled and started to scream again, but the large one hit her hard across the mouth and she whimpered instead, tasting blood.

"S'alright, girly," he grinned at her, taking a long look down her torn dress. "No one's gonna hurt you…"

"_Much_," finished the other, guffawing sharply. "Now, well, well, _what _do we have here?" He reached up to tear off the emerald mask she still wore, turning it over with dirty, calloused fingers. "Running away from a magic ball, sweetheart? Got any gold slippers?"

She willed her voice not to shake and it obeyed, sounding deadly calm. "If it's gold you want, I have plenty—take me safely back to the castle and I'll see that you're paid in Galleons—"

"The _castle_?" They both laughed uproariously. "You _do _think you're a right lil' fairytale princess, don' you?" She opened her mouth, confused—did they not realize Hogwarts was so near? Or _was _it? How far, exactly, had she wandered?

"Now what's a magic princess like you doing in a forest like this?" mused the thinner man, pointing her wand at her as he paced around the tree where his companion held her. "Or maybe…" He leaned in close, sniffing her hair. "…more like a Dark witch, hmm, girly? What other business would you have in this forest tonight?"

Her heart was beating very fast. Could these be Dark wizards? Did they know about Walpurgis Night? Was it even possible that… "Are you…Knights?" she ventured.

They gaped at her for a few seconds before bursting into laughter again. "What'd I tell you, princess?" choked out the bearded one, hitting her again, casually. The careless nonchalance of it stung worse than the blow itself. _These men aren't afraid of me, they aren't afraid of anything. _"This ain't no fairytale."

Bellatrix kneed him hard between the legs and scratched at his eyes when he doubled over, twisting away and starting to run—the thin man caught her first, tripping her and throwing her back to the ground.

"Feisty lil' Dark witch, aren' you?"

Bellatrix spat out, "Do you have _any_ idea who I am! Damien Rosier is my uncle, and my father, Cygnus Black—"

"Rosier, you say? _Ministry_ Rosier?" She gave him a defiant, stony look, and he looked to the larger man uneasily. "If she _is _Rosier's…"

The bearded man, however, paid no attention, looking at Bellatrix with a new, startling intensity. "_Black_, she says. You do look like one, now I look on it…oh, I know the Blacks, girly. Owe 'em one, don't I, after ol' Arcturus gettin' me fired from the Ministry las' year what for bein' a _Mudblood_. S'pose you feel the same? Elitist bitch." He leaned over and spat in her face.

She recoiled, panic rising. So that was the way of it, then…Mudblood refugees, outlaws, living on the outskirts of wizarding society thanks to powerful Pureblood activists like her grand uncle. They would never let her go unscathed, not now. _Salazar help me._

"I reckon we've caught ourselves a _Pureblood _princess," said the other, a gaunt smile spreading slowly over his face. "Daddy's lil' princess won' be so Pure after we get done with her, though, will she?"

She'd seized back her wand before either of them had time to blink, grabbing it from where it hung limply in the smaller one's hand by twisting back his fingers to direct a disarming charm upward at precisely the moment they thought she'd stopped fighting. Their eyes widened in surprise as they kicked at her and drew their own, but she was too quick for them, leaping to her feet in a perfect duelling recovery jump and darting around the tree, ignoring the pain shooting up her leg from her injured ankle and casting a quick stunning spell back over her shoulder.

She must have missed, because they were both shooting at her now, clumsy jets of red and blue flying through the trees and lighting up the forest in bright flashes of colour. Bellatrix dodged them all and managed to reflect a few back at them. "You bitch!" one of them was shouting; she savoured the note of surprise.

She'd never taken on two to one before, but it was easier than she would have thought—or perhaps not such a fair fight, after all, as these two were clearly not accomplished duellists. With her wand restored, she was a frenzied whirlwind of furious barrages and attacks, and in a few short minutes, they were both disarmed and petrified, staring up at her bloodied and resentful from the forest floor.

Breathing unsteadily in victory, still half-mad with battle fever, Bellatrix smiled. "Daddy taught his princess a few tricks," she hissed, kicking them both hard in the face with her good foot until she heard the satisfying crunch of bone.

The third figure appeared between the trees so suddenly she hardly had time to think. "STUPEFY!" she shrieked, just as the new attacker yelled, "PROTEGO!"

She lowered her wand, astonished. "_Rodolphus_?"

He rushed toward her, crushing her in his arms, and she did not resist, instead clinging to him so tightly she feared he would burst. "I knew it was you," he said, holding her closely enough to feel both of their pounding, erratic heartbeats. "I followed, I _knew_."

Bellatrix choked out something halfway between laughter and a sob and clung to him still tighter, never so relieved to see him in her life. "Rodolphus, I was stupid, so stupid—"

Disregarding that, he took in the scene—the two restrained Mudbloods on the ground, her swollen lip, the ripped gown—and his sharp, wolfish features darkened dangerously. "I'll kill them," he said simply, releasing her only to aim his wand at their hearts.

With a thrill of certainty, she knew it was true: there was murder in his eyes. _Could he_? Bella wondered breathlessly. But—"No," she said fiercely, lowering his arm. "I won't have you thrown in Azkaban over them, and _there's no time_—Malfoy's here, and he's looking for something, or someone—"

Rodolphus's lips curled into a snarl, but after a moment he stepped back with what looked like phenomenal effort and flung his cloak over her. Somewhere in the distance, an animal growled, but Bella was no longer afraid: the forest seemed less threatening with Rodolphus by her side.

"I know," he said stiffly, wand arm still vibrating with anger as they hurried through the dark trees, leaving the petrified Mudbloods as food for the wolves. Bellatrix had never mastered healing spells, but she cast a numbing charm on her swollen ankle all the same, and soon the pain had become a dull, throbbing ache instead. "We saw him, but he got away," Rodolphus was explaining. "Rosier, Avery, and Mulciber are with me—don't give me that look, Bella, we both know what he tried, it's enough that he didn't go through with it, and either way we're better off with him on our side—"

He was cut off suddenly by a distant cry, followed by a jet of red light shot into the air like a cannon. "Our signal," said Rodolphus tightly. Their eyes met. "They've found him." They took off running, darting through the trees in the direction of the spell as tree branches slashed out at their faces.

Mulciber and Evan were duelling Malfoy as they arrived, panting, in a large clearing, while Avery was hunched over something on the ground.

Lucius saw her first, eyes widening in surprise. "_Black_," he hissed between ducking under Evan's gold jet of light and sending a hex shooting toward Mulciber. "How did you—you couldn't have—they were supposed to kill you!" Rodolphus had come up behind her now, wand raised dangerously, and Malfoy sneered. "Oh, of _course_—devil boy rescued you, did he?"

If Rodolphus hadn't held her back, Bellatrix would have ended him right there. So _he_ had sent the two forest men after her, probably telling them no more than to search for a pretty girl in a dress, vastly underestimating her abilities to defend herself in true Malfoy fashion and trusting two Mudblood outlaws to play hired assassin in his desperation to keep her from finding whatever he was looking for. It was so spectacularly infuriating she could have _killed _him, but—"No," said Rodolphus, echoing her from earlier. "Let_me._"

Ordering Mulciber and Evan to stand aside, he disarmed Malfoy in a matter of seconds and forced him, glaring, to his knees. Bella didn't know what he would have done next—she had never seen him so angry—but before any of them could find out Avery was shouting.

"They're—Vulcan, Rodolphus, they're _glowing! _I think he must…oh gods, I think he must be a Portkey."

Bella's breath caught in her throat as she noticed, for the first time, what Avery was kneeling over: the starched white bones of a skeleton in the very centre of the clearing, enveloped an eerie blue light and wearing a single chain of office around its neck…the medallion of the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot.

They'd found MacDougal.

Lucius's eyes had lit up at the word _Portkey_, and Bellatrix rushed to him, shaking him by the shoulders. "You knew, Malfoy, I know you did! Who did this? Was it you who sent the riddles?" She slapped him with a stinging jinx. "_Answer me!_"

He smirked up at her, something dark and sinister behind his eyes. "Not me," he said softly. "Never me."

"I don't believe you, you slimy bastard—"

Rodolphus seized him by the collar and pulled him to his feet, dragging him over to the skeleton. "Where does it lead to, Malfoy? _Where_?"

Lucius was silent for a long moment, eyes never leaving the dead Knight. When he spoke, finally, his smooth voice had gone jagged, transfixed with a crystal purpose none of them could see. "To the Knights of Walpurgis, of course."

And in the next second, he was reaching for the skeleton.

"_NO!_" screamed all of them together, grasping, and as Bellatrix touched cold, hard bone, the moonlit forest lurched forward into flames.


	5. The Heir of Slytherin

**DARK**  
Chapter V – "The Heir of Slytherin"

* * *

_On the seventh day, Salazar Slytherin passed into the shadow world beyond our own._

_As He lay dying in the darkest chambers of His watery fortress, His snakes crawled mournfully over Him, whispering, and the disciples who had followed Him from Hogwarts knelt beside His bed in vigil. When He spoke, His voice was low and scratching, and they all—man and snake alike—leaned close to hear._

'_The work I have begun is not yet finished,' spoke Slytherin. 'The prophecies must be fulfilled, the old world once more restored.' The disciples fell to uneasy whispers. Who, then, was to be the new leader, in the great Salazar's place? For surely none could hope to possess His skills, surely none could dream of doing all that He had done._

_But Slytherin continued, and they fell silent once again. 'There is an Heir. My Heir.' Several of the disciples gasped at this—for while it was whispered in some circles that Slytherin had had a child, a daughter, with another founder of the school so many years ago, no Heir was known, and He had been thought to have long ago resigned all worldly pleasures. They reeled at this new revelation: the son of Slytherin would be a formidable wizard indeed._

'_Where, Master?' asked one. 'Tell us, so that we may seek him out and follow him, as we have followed you.'_

_Slytherin laughed, a dry, rasping sound. 'He is not yet come, my faithful. Many years from now, centuries, perhaps, he will at last be born, and you will know him by the blood in his eyes, by my gold, and by…his Tongue…' He lapsed into the thrall of the hissing, and the snakes at His bed hissed back in response, circling Him slowly. Salazar was fading now, His black eyes flickering swiftly between lucidity and darkness. 'He will open it,' breathed Slytherin. 'He will open my chamber, and the world will bow before him for all eternity. He will lead you all to greatness once again.'_

_Then the snakes ceased their frantic slithering, going very still, and Salazar Slytherin breathed His last._

- from "Lord of Serpents: The Glorious History of Salazar Slytherin" by Sir Grafias Gaunt, 1581

_Rumours have persisted throughout the centuries of a secret military order founded prior to the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy to protect witches and wizards from Muggle persecution. Once the Statute was enforced and Muggles became convinced of the nonexistence of magic, such an order can be presumed to have died out, its services no longer required. Even today, however, one still hears whispers of an ancient secret society advancing the positions of the eldest and wealthiest of magical families..._

- from "A Guide to Medieval Sorcery" by Quintius Umfraville, 1697

* * *

**SCOTLAND – **1974

Bella was on fire.

Red flames danced around her in a mad frenzy, searing white-hot into her skin. There were screams in the distance, a low, keening sound—and then someone was dragging her away, shouting, and everything went black.

When she opened her eyes again Rodolphus was kneeling over her in his devil's mask against a backdrop of fire, murmuring spells in a low, frantic voice. Seeing her stir, his eyes widened. "Bella!"

"What—what _happened_?" she demanded faintly, coughing at the taste of ash.

He helped her up. The skin on her legs felt tight and rigid, stretched taut against muscle and bone. "We landed in the centre of a dying bonfire; you and Avery got the worst of it. I healed the burns as best I could, but you may be stiff—here, lean against me—"

"No!" she grimaced, pushing him away and stumbling unsteadily to her feet. "The bones were a Portkey, they were supposed to take us to the _Knights_—where's Malfoy!"

"Shout it a little louder, Black, I don't think anyone heard you," Lucius said irritably from behind her. He brushed ashes off his white robes, singed a little at the edges, as Mulciber and Evan held him at wandpoint.

Bellatrix took in their surroundings: they were on a large, grassy knoll in the midst of a vast, sprawling hill, lit up by six other fading fires much like the one they'd stumbled into. They appeared to be alone.

"The Knights, Malfoy, really?" she said furiously. "Where the hell are we?"

"It might have escaped your keen notice, Black," said Lucius through gritted teeth, "but I'm as lost and burnt as you, and wandless besides."

Avery struggled up, wincing. "Wherever we are, we're stranded, Knights or no. That bonfire was MacDougal's funeral pyre."

It was true. The bones had turned to ashes in the flames, and all that remained of Malcolm MacDougal was his gold Wizengamot medallion, melting slowly in the firelight. The Portkey was destroyed: there was no going back.

"It was meant for _me_," Lucius was muttering. "The rest of you were never supposed to come along for the ride."

"But it _wasn't _for you, was it, Malfoy?" Bella said heatedly. "Not according to Gibbon!"

"_Professor _Gibbon?" said Rodolphus, baffled. "What's he got to do with it?"

"An excellent question, Malfoy," said Bellatrix, rounding on him again. "I suggest you explain _exactly _what Professor Gibbon has to do with it."

He eyed them all warily. Mulciber shot out an impatient hex, and he snapped, "Fine. _Fine. _I'll tell you everything, on the condition you return my wand afterward. So long as I'm forced to wander strange countryside with you lot I demand to be armed."

Bella looked to Rodolphus, still holding Lucius's disarmed wand, and he gave a sharp nod. "Agreed," she said grudgingly, and with a heavy, long-suffering sigh, Lucius began.

"It started four months ago, over holiday. My father had been going off on business trips every weekend, taking strange visitors late at night, locking himself in his study for hours on private Floo calls—I started to suspect something was amiss. When I confronted him, he explained readily enough, expecting me to go along with him as his Heir, but I could never have been prepared for what he told me." He looked away and into the fading embers of the fire, expression unreadable. "There is strife within the Knights of Walpurgis, warring factions clawing at each others throats. But my father…my _father_ has chosen the wrong side. He leads the old guard resistance against a new, younger party he believes threatens all that the Knights of Walpurgis stand for. Their chosen name: the Death Eaters."

Bellatrix and Rodolphus exchanged looks; Evan let out an audible gasp—'would never resort to terrorism'_ indeed_. Lucius watched their reactions carefully, a flicker of amusement crossing his pale face. "But surely you had to have suspected? No strange photographs planted in desk drawers?" Avery shifted uncomfortably, and Lucius turned his steel gaze on Bellatrix. "No peculiar, unsigned…riddles?"

"It _was _you, then," said Bellatrix through gritted teeth.

Lucius rolled his eyes. "Do try to keep up, Black. What would I, my father, or the Knights want with a dim little _girl _like you?" He rushed on, ignoring Bella's simmering anger with grim satisfaction. "No, someone else brought you here tonight, for reasons I suspect are far beyond your grasp. You might find it would have been wiser to let me go on alone, after all." His eyes glinted in the dying firelight.

"Who, Malfoy?" Rodolphus broke in firmly over Bella's started curse.

Lucius shrugged elegantly. "Gibbon set the Portkey, but he's only a guard dog: it's his master you want…the enigmatic man I've been attempting to make contact with for several months now." And rapidly, it all made sense.

"Tom Riddle," said Bellatrix softly. A cold breeze swept over the hill, cutting into her bare skin like knives. She shivered, and Malfoy smiled.

"I think," said Rodolphus without breaking Lucius's gaze, blue eyes gone dark with a chilled certainty, "you mean _Lord Voldemort._"

"Don't want to go saying that name into the night, boy," came a soft, silken voice from somewhere in the darkness. "You never know who might be listening."

A gloved hand muffled Bella's scream. She thrashed wildly, firing off several missed curses before her captor easily subdued her, and she was frozen in the grip of a masked, hooded man in black. She surveyed the scene in mute panic.

They'd been surrounded by half a dozen tall figures in plain black robes and cloaks accented with elaborate silver masks, appearing silently out of the night like fiends in a child's nightmare. The masked newcomers had restrained each of them with very little effort, and their voices appeared to have been enchanted to all speak in the same low, silken tone. The effect was eerie, striking in its menace—a faceless, demonic legion of one.

"You are nearly late," said the masked figure holding Avery, or perhaps Lucius—the voices were indistinguishable. "We have been sent to escort you to the celebration. Come quietly, do not resist, and you will remain unharmed."

"Like hell!" snarled Mulciber, struggling anew. A hooded figure stunned him with an unfamiliar, flashing spell directly to his heart, and he shrank back, gasping.

Bellatrix weighed their options. Lucius, she saw, was entirely calm, even palpably excited—things seemed to be going exactly as he'd hoped or planned. Would it be wiser, then, to go along with these masked men—whether friend or foe? If Rodolphus's theory was correct, if the pale boy in the photograph and the mysterious new leader terrorizing the public were one and the same…She met his eyes, and he nodded almost imperceptibly.

"We will follow." Her voice sounded too thin, too shaky in the hollow darkness, but its conviction rang true.

The masked man behind her seemed to smile. "Wise." A whispered _Obscuro_, and Bella's eyes were covered with a silk blindfold, shrouding her in total darkness.

The cloaked men led them through the night like silent shadows, the only sound faded drums and chanting in the distance, growing steadily louder with approach. After miles, or perhaps only a few short yards—it was impossible to say—they stepped through what felt like a barrier of simmering air, and Bella's blindfold was removed with the quick flourish of a wand.

She bit her tongue as her eyes adjusted to the sudden blinding, brilliant light, stumbling a little against her captor—looking down, she saw someone had performed a Disillusionment Charm, rendering her body completely transparent.

The sound of drums was almost deafening now, cold air filled with the scent of smoke and ashes. She was standing in a concealed, shadowed antechamber at the bottom of a grand coliseum of polished stone, lined with towering columns and crowded with nearly a hundred austere, robed figures chanting strange, unfamiliar words as they looked up at the enormous arched balcony overlooking them all—waiting for something, it seemed, but what?

At second glance, Bellatrix was startled to realize she recognized many of the men seated around the pillar nearest to the hidden antechamber: there was old Perseus Parkinson, chair of the Hogwarts Board of Governors, seated beside Augustus Rookwood, Head of the Department of Mysteries, directly below Alice Howard's grandfather, the magical ambassador to the Americas. This was an old place, a sacred place, a _secret_ place, and there was no mistaking, now, who the attendees of this particular celebration were.

"The Knights of Walpurgis," breathed Bella, and from behind came her masked captor's answering whisper in her ear: "Not for long." There was an odd undercurrent of familiarity in the soft laugh that followed…mystified, Bellatrix turned to look more closely—but he, and the rest of his masked cohorts, had vanished as swiftly and silently as they'd appeared, leaving Bella alone.

"Rodolphus!" she hissed desperately, trying to spot even a fleeting glimpse of dark hair or red robes beneath a possible Disillusionment, but the drums had risen to a pulsating crescendo now, and her frantic voice was lost in the clamour. In the next instant, a shrill voice rang out across the stones, and an ancient, blue-garbed figure appeared at the balcony, raising an aged hand. The drums fell silent at once.

"I bid welcome to the distinguished Knights of Walpurgis," said the white-haired man. A flaming sword and stone crossed through the embroidered shield on his blue robes. "We gather here at the Stones of Beltane as we must each year—to tend to the ritual fires in tribute to the old gods, purveyors of the magic coursing through our veins."

Bellatrix caught her breath. _The seven bonfires on the hill_. But they had been dying, flickering out with every second, and the bones of Malcolm MacDougall—as old and powerful a Knight as any—had burned in one. Something was very wrong.

"There are those among our number who have chosen not to attend this evening," the blue-robed man continued. There were whispers now, murmurs of apprehension and discontent. He raised his voice above the sudden commotion. "This choice—"

"And what of those among our number," interrupted a stately, white-blond man that could only be Abraxus Malfoy, "who had that choice made for them? Are we to pretend Malcolm MacDougal simply killed _himself_?"

Bellatrix studied him carefully. The Blacks, and most of the other ancient Pureblood families, viewed Abraxus Malfoy as a social-climbing noveau-riche upstart: through an incomparable combination of hard work, keen business acumen, sheer determination, a Gringotts vault overflowing with self-made Galleons, and quite a bit of luck, he had single-handedly managed to elevate the Pure-but-not-blue-blooded House of Malfoy to a near-unparalleled level of power and esteem in wizarding society. Yes, Abraxus had friends in all the places that mattered and enjoyed flaunting his wealth and connections wherever he could, but did he truly think he could challenge the Knights of Walpurgis, or even a faction of them? What new game or gamble was he playing?

The murmurs had intensified, rising and escalating into a palpable sense of dread. "We do not know that he is dead!" snapped one man, just as another shouted, "Conspiracy!"

"These are dangerous accusations," chastened the Grand Knight, wavering visibly. "If you wish to assign blame, sir, arrange a hearing in the Ministry—this is neither the time nor place, and the Knights do not dole out vengeance."

"On the contrary, _sir_," Abraxus said sharply, "vengeance has already been doled out in spades, and now is the time for _justice. _We cannot allow assassination among ourselves to go unpunished." He stood up, shrewd eyes roving around the assembly with flagrant scorn. "Look around you! See who is missing here tonight, and mark your enemies accordingly."

The coliseum erupted in a fury of shouts and exclamations. Still invisible, Bellatrix pressed further toward the centre, straining to see. Where was her father, or Arcturus, or Orion, or even Pollux? So far as she could tell, the Black men were nowhere to be found.

"Be seated, all of you!" pleaded the Grand Knight. "We will come to a concession like civilized wizards!"

_"Avada Kedavra!_"

The balcony lit up in brilliant, iridescent green light, and the Grand Knight of Walpurgis let out the quietest of gasps before collapsing. From behind his still body a man stepped out of the shadows, speaking deliberately in a high, clear voice that reverberated around the stunned congregation with unassailable, deified intensity.

"The time for civilized concession has passed."

All noise and uproar seemed to fall away, leaving Bellatrix transfixed in a soundless void. He was—there was no other word for it—_magnificent. _Attired in the simplest of black robes falling over his lean body like a shadowed shroud, he was deathly pale, with hollowed cheekbones and a mouth like a fresh wound. His black hair arched away from his face, throwing sharp, concave features into harsh relief, and the night itself engulfed him as though he'd commanded darkness to drape itself over him like a cloak. A single gold medallion—locket?—hung around his throat, a spot of gleaming colour in all his black. He was much older now, yes, the sculpted features strangely intensified and vaguely distorted—but he still radiated power, gazing down on them all like an emperor upon his subjects. It was unmistakably the boy from the photograph grown. _Riddle_.

And he had just killed the Grand Knight of Walpurgis in cold blood.

The assembly had descended into stunned, deadly silence: no one moved. "Tonight is the dawn of a new era for the Knights of Walpurgis." His ringing voice was intoxicating,_enthralling_, but a chilled undercurrent of menace lurked just below each elegant syllable: serpents sliding under glass. "No longer will you operate beneath a veil of secrecy—concealed in the petty agencies of the Ministry, hiding behind wizened old men and antiquated mores. Tonight—" shadows seemed to shift behind him—"you move from traditionalism into innovation, from posturing into battle, from corruption into Purity."

There were rising murmurs now—_revolution, _Bella heard one man mutter; from another, _we've been betrayed—_and at the far side of the coliseum, someone shouted, "Murderer!"

He regarded them all in perilous silence, tilting his head to the side so subtly that he might not have moved at all—and out of the darkness rose the masked men in black, twice as many of them now, wands raised in warning as they moved to encircle him on the balcony. Among the seated Knights, other masked figures had emerged like shadows, holding the terrified assembly at wandpoint. Riddle's mouth curved upward in a chilling caricature of a smile.

"But I am so much more."

"And what is that!" someone shouted. "Who are _you_ to _dare_—" The speaker was cut off with a choking groan as one of the masked guards shot off an unfamiliar spell to his throat, but others had already taken up the call. _Who_, they shouted furiously, like reverberating owls. _Who, who…_

"I am that I am," called Riddle, voice preternaturally expanded and resonating off each polished stone. Bella shivered, hearing it—it was as though he was standing directly beside her…as though he whispered in her ear. "I am the rise and the fall, I am destruction and desire, I am dominion over Death and Darkness, _I am the terror of the world._" There was a feverish glint to his dark, bloodshot eyes now, matching the fire in his words. "I am," he finished deliberately, "Lord Voldemort."

Bellatrix could physically _feel _the air sweep out of the coliseum in a single gasping breath as everyone present put a face to the name. The wanted, unidentified new leader speaking dangerous promises and vague threats to the Prophet was addressing them now, surrounded by armed, masked followers—no friend to the Knights of Walpurgis. And somewhere deep within the subconscious recesses of her soul, Bella knew she had known all along.

Abraxus Malfoy rose once more. "_You_," he said in a low, furious voice, "are a pretender and a madman, with no place in this council."

Three of the masked men moved toward him, wands raised, but Lord Voldemort stopped them with a single slight gesture, looking down at Abraxus with amusement in his blazing eyes. "And here," he said softly, "comes the paradox." Another gesture of command, and two masked figures in the shadows behind him led Lucius Malfoy into the light.

Abraxus went ashen. "Lucius…" he staggered. "You have taken my son!"

"Your son," said Lord Voldemort, "has seen what you cannot. Lucius is prepared to embrace the powers hidden in the Dark and use them to transform our world."

Beside him, Lucius gazed down at his father, pale eyes gone steely with a wild, vicious excitement. "I am willing, Father. Are you?"

"To serve _him_?" Abraxus spat. "_Never._" He reached for his wand, but the masked men were on him in an instant, holding him restrained, and others shifted around him—whether in dread or anticipation, it was impossible to say.

"It is as I have known for some time now," said Lord Voldemort. "True power lies not within the archaic institutions of old men, but in the Pure faith of the very youngest among us." Was it Bella's imagination, or did he look directly to _her _at those words, piercing through the Disillusionment and the darkness of the alcove to stare into her soul? Another shiver quivered down her spine.

"And who are you, _Lord_, to speak of Purity?" called another Knight, a younger man Bellatrix did not recognize. His words dripped disdain at the traditionally Muggle title.

Lord Voldemort did not answer at first, savouring the taut silence—and when he opened his mouth, it was not to speak.

Instead, there came a low, sibilant hissing sound, and through the stone arches slithered dozens of long, venomous snakes.

One slid coolly past Bella's swollen ankle—there were shouts, and screams—she barely felt it, or heard them, staring at the Dark man on the balcony with newfound, breathless absorption. _He was a Parselmouth_. And that could only mean one thing.

"The Heir of Slytherin!" Augustus Rookwood had clamoured to the centre of the coliseum and was kneeling now, tears running in glistening streaks down his face. "Come at last!"

Others were following his lead as several of the Purest and most powerful men in the wizarding world fell to their knees in shock and awe. Lord Voldemort's clear voice rang out once more. "With the powers and tenets of my noble ancestor Salazar Slytherin at our disposal, we shall take back the magical world." His long white fingers reached up to touch the gold hanging from his throat, and Bellatrix struggled to see. It caught the light, and she gave a sharp intake of breath—upon it was an engraved, emerald _S. _There were other gasps, and she knew she had not been the only one to see—at his side, Lucius was blatantly staring with hugely widened eyes. The Heir of Slytherin continued. "We shall see that the things we had thought _evil _are in truth the means to limitless power and freedom, and we shall know more definitely than we ever did before the direction in which we must move if a better world is to arise on the ruins of the one which is now hurling itself into destruction."

Scattered, stunned applause. Lord Voldemort hissed another command, and the snakes began to circle the coliseum in a quickening, ouroboros-like circle. His own words quickened with their pace. "Follow me to greatness and you will become _real _wizards again, with _real _magic…wielders of something Dark and obscure…something frightening." His bloodshot eyes seemed to flash full red for a moment—not bright Gryffindor scarlet, but the rich crimson of blood. "Those who refuse, or are found unworthy—will die. I do not wish to spill Pure blood. Do not resist me."

A chill swept over the assembly as his masked followers began to stride the lengths of the columns in pace with the serpents.

The first to show defiance was Porus Podmore—an elderly member of the Wizengamot and a close ally to Malcolm MacDougal—who rushed toward the balcony, shouting curses, before Lord Voldemort breathed a hiss and the snakes brought him to the ground, screaming in agony as the venom did its work. Several others attempted to duel the masked men surrounding them, but they were no match for Dark curses of more immense power and speed than Bella could even conceive of, and were cut down in moments. She pressed herself tight against the smooth walls of the alcove entrance, heart racing, and prayed the Disillusionment would hold. When the carnage had ended and she dared to look out again, twelve lay dead or dying by snakebite, and at least fifteen more had been killed at the hands of the cloaked men. Bella searched desperately for her father or Arcturus, but they did not appear to be among either the dead or the surviving. The remaining four-dozen Knights—all of them among the youngest of the assembly—were now kneeling in supplication toward the man on the balcony in the midst of the bodies of their fellows. The image was staggering—unreal and unthinkable, like an outlandish, inconceivable dream.

Abraxus Malfoy alone remained standing, still held between two masked guards. He glared up at the balcony, where Lord Voldemort stood calmly with Lucius, and cried, "Duel me like a man, then, Riddle, rather than having your masked cowards strike me down."

Lord Voldemort's smile curved like a scythe. "As you wish." He seemed to disappear in a flash of shadow, only to silently appear a second later in the midst of the coliseum, only a few feet away from where Abraxus stood, released by the masked guards. His back was to her now, but he was close enough that Bellatrix could have reached out to touch his black robes. She sank back into the darkness instead, hardly daring to breathe.

"Let's see how Pure yourblood truly is when it's spilled among the rest," Abraxus sneered, and with a strange, foreign incantation, a glowing iron sword crested with skulls had materialized in his hands.

The masked men shrank back, wands raised, but Lord Voldemort lowered them with a glance and did not even raise his own to defend himself as in the next instant Abraxus stepped forward and unceremoniously ran him through with the weapon.

"_NO!_" Bellatrix screamed, then clamped her hands over her mouth in terrified realization—but no one could have heard her over the resulting din. The Knights were all shouting, the snakes were circling, and Lord Voldemort was pulling out the unsullied, newly dimmed sword from his chest, entirely unscathed.

An illusion, a trick, Bella thought madly—that had been a killing blow—but perhaps the tales and prophecies were truer than anyone suspected, and the Heir of Slytherin simply could not die.

_I am dominion over Death._

"Lucius," Lord Voldemort called coolly into fresh silence, the sword at his uninjured side. Abraxus had lurched backward, wearing an expression of abject horror. "It is time to prove your loyalty. Tell your father what happens to enemies of Lord Voldemort."

A thousand warring emotions flashed lightning-fast across Lucius Malfoy's face, but they passed quickly, and then his features were cold and expressionless as the blank, gleaming stones surrounding him. His lips barely moved as they pronounced the sentence.

"They die."

It was over before Bellatrix could even blink, and Lord Voldemort was stepping impassively over Abraxus Malfoy's fallen body, blood dripping from the Walpurgis sword to soak the dirt. He dropped the sword to the ground with careless indifference and replaced it with a long yew wand.

"I will have the world Purified," he proclaimed with ringing conviction. "But first we must scourge it of its undeserving; set fire to the old and make way for the new." Around the columns, the masked men raised their wands once more—from the tips sprang bursts of fire. "You want a sacrifice to your old gods? Here it is."

And as the masked men lowered their wands, the corpses on the ground went up in flames.

The fire surged and swelled, winding up the columns now as the coliseum burned. The snakes fled back into the night, but the Knights stayed, untouched by the flames.

"A new order shall rise from the remains of the old like a phoenix from its ashes," said Lord Voldemort, smiling slightly as if at a private joke. In the background, the drums began to sound again, promising and ominous, as if of their own accord. "From this point onward, you are _all _my Death Eaters, and together, we will taste true power."

The masked men—_the Death Eaters_—all raised their wands to a sky gone red with fire, and above them rose a glittering green, starry skull with a snake protruding from its gaping mouth, to hover brilliantly over the collapsing columns.

Applause thundered with vital urgency, and Bella's very bones seemed to tremble with it. She felt a dangerous thrill rise within her, a startling rush in her veins, and somewhere deep within her soul an ember blazed to life as overhead red fire and green stars entwined.

"Exquisite, isn't it?"

Bellatrix whirled around at the familiar voice, eyes wide, Disillusionment broken at last. He had removed the mask, and with it the cloaked voice, but the black robes—so foreign on his usually white-clad form—were unmistakably the same. Light from the flames backlit his golden hair with an unholy glow, like the halo of some demented fallen angel, and fresh bloodstains on black silk gloves marred his usual impeccable elegance.

"_You?_"

"Me," smiled Damien Rosier. "Apologies for the initial circumstances of our meeting here tonight—I'm sure by now you understand the need for secrecy."

Bella's head was spinning. She rested a shaking hand on the wall of the alcove—spared from the fire, for now—to steady herself, and found it searing hot. "It can't be…you…you're…"

"A Death Eater," Damien supplied helpfully, offering a stabilizing hand. "And a very good one, at that, if you'll forgive the arrogance."

"You let MacDougal be killed," she heard herself blurt out, immediately wishing she could take back the words. Were they a commendation or a condemnation? _Both._

"Let?" he repeated with slight, sleek amusement, turning the word over with his tongue. "Oh, my dear, sweet niece—I killed him myself."

Bellatrix had no time to process this latest revelation: Rodolphus had appeared from the opposite end of the coliseum, growing less transparent with each step, and—spotting her—rushed forward. Bella started at his appearance—she realized, all at once, that she had not thought of him since she'd found herself alone before the madness had begun.

"Are you alright?" he said intently, gripping her arms hard enough to bruise. "They separated us, I couldn't find you—"

"She would never have been harmed," Damien assured him pleasantly from where he leaned, nonchalant, against the wall. If Rodolphus was surprised to see him, he hid it well, face going carefully blank. Damien turned back to Bellatrix. "The Dark Lord wishes to meet you personally," he said softly, cornflower eyes glinting in the firelight. "Come with me—he is waiting."

Bella felt as though he'd Stupefied her. She turned toward the centre of the coliseum again. The flames still burned and the drums still sounded, but it had emptied over the course of this new shock—Lord Voldemort was gone.

"Is that an order?" Rodolphus asked mildly, expression still vigilantly neutral—but Bellatrix noticed his hand resting tensely on his wand.

Damien smiled. "A forceful request."

"Fine," said Rodolphus tersely. "Let's go."

Damien gave him a quick, appraising look. "Lestrange, isn't it?"

"Rodolphus."

"Charming. You will remain here; the invitation is for my niece alone."

Rodolphus started an angry protest, but fell silent with an audible gasp as another unmasked Death Eater approached—dark haired, with deep blue eyes and sharp, wolfish features.

"Father."

"Shall we leave them to their little family reunion?" said Damien in her ear as Rodolphus let go of her and moved to meet his father. Dazed, Bella nodded in consent. Her uncle called to the elder Lestrange, "Fetch my son with the others; I will join you shortly." And with a murmured incantation, he placed a single gloved hand on the wall. It opened immediately into a portal, with the glimpse of a winding spiral passageway descending deep darkness underground. "Witches first," mocked Damien, bowing, and with a deep, calming breath, Bella stepped through without looking back.

He lit his wand upon entering, and the portal closed once more. Bella wondered wildly what else that wand had done—who else had the Head of Magical Law Enforcement killed in the name of Lord Voldemort? She let him lead her through the labyrinthine passageway as if sleepwalking, unable to shake the feeling that this was all a mad dream.

"What happens when a few dozen of the most powerful men in the wizarding world are discovered to be…missing?" she asked suddenly, voice sounding too-loud in the dark. She needed answers. This was as good a place as any to start.

Damien laughed. "Aside from mass panic, you mean? No one is safe: this message will be taken as such. Some won't die, officially, for several months now—Abraxus Malfoy will come down with an especially severe case of dragon pox, I think. Bad enough to prevent public appearances, but allowing him to still sign important documents from the seclusion of his home when necessary."

Bellatrix took another deep breath. "Where is _my_ father?" she pressed. "Orion? Arcturus? They should have been here tonight!"

Damien gave her a piercing sideways glance. "Be glad they were not."

"But—are they—"

"Your Family is safe," he interrupted sharply. "I've seen to that."

"They're not…not Death Eaters?"

Damien snorted elegantly. "Hardly. And the wisest course of action would be to ensure they do not discover _you_ are."

Bella's brow furrowed. "I'm _not_—"

"Aren't you? Aren't you _really_?" He studied her in the wandlight, a faint smile playing about his lips. "I know how powerfully drawn you are to him already." Bellatrix looked away, discomfited, and he added wryly, "We two are ultimately not so different. For the rest of them, the draw is ideology, fear, power…" The underground passage had come to an end, and they'd arrived at a huge oak-carved door cut into the stone. "But for you and I, Bella, it's the _man—_and he is all of it combined."

The door swung open.

A small green fire lit the small stone chamber, but it did little to counter the deathly cold—Bellatrix could not conceal a shiver. There was a clean, musky smell in the air that reminded her of the smooth skin of a snake. The hidden room itself was surprisingly simple. Bella didn't know what she'd expected—something grand and morbid, perhaps…adorned in silver and decorated with bones. Just when she thought it empty, Lord Voldemort stepped out of the darkness like a shadow himself, appearing entirely composed and untouched by the night's spectacle.

"Master." Her uncle fell immediately to his knees, and Bellatrix stared, taken entirely aback—Damien Rosier was not the sort to bow to anyone, let alone call another man_Master. _But then, she supposed in a daze, this was hardly the night's biggest surprise.

"Rise, Damien," said the Dark Lord. His cold voice was softer now than before an audience of hundreds, but no less captivating. He turned his bloodshot eyes on Bellatrix, and she caught her breath, immediately trapped in his thrall. "This is the girl?"

"My eldest niece," said Damien, presenting her with a flourish. "Bellatrix Black." He gave the slightest of inflections on her surname, in the subtlest of nuanced tones, and Lord Voldemort answered it with the smallest of smiles.

"You have done well," he said quietly, without tearing the concentrated charisma of his gaze away from Bellatrix. "Leave us."

Damien bowed as he backed out of the room without another word, expression unreadable, and Bella was alone in a darkened underground chamber with the most dangerous man in the wizarding world.

She stood very still as he began to pace slowly around her: the serpent circling, evaluating his prey. It was penetrating, unnerving—he seemed to scrutinize every contour of her body, every shallow breath.

"Bellatrix Black," he repeated with the gentlest hint of venom. He reached out to caress a long strand of hair, black as her name, and added softer, "_Bella._" She didn't dare move.

"I am told you are considered beautiful," he continued, sounding faintly amused at the idea. He released her hair and resumed his measured pace around her body. Bella was dizzy, light-headed—she might have stopped breathing entirely. She didn't _feel _beautiful, not now, not in this torn, loose-hanging gown, with a bloody lip and swollen ankle…she was _hideous_, truly, under his unbroken, critical stare. She opened her mouth, trying to think of a response that was not defensive or defiant, but he was speaking again, indifferent. "Lord Voldemort has no use for beauty."

"Then how fortunate I am many other things besides," she heard herself declare with shocking boldness. To her surprise, he went still, looking at her in renewed interest.

"Why are you here, Bellatrix Black?"

She remembered, with a violent, lurching feeling, the riddle at her bedside, the path behind the mirror, the werewolves and the blood magic, the desperate forest escape, the skeleton, the fire—

"You brought me here," she answered, voice firm and emboldened with newfound understanding. "You…you tested me. You _chose_ me."

Something indiscernible passed behind his eyes—was it approval, or displeasure? She fixated on the jagged tear to the front of his black robes, where a sword to the heart had failed to kill him less than an hour ago. "Your uncle," he said suddenly, turning from her at last to stare into the fire, "vouched for your passion and your skill, and you have demonstrated that his faith in you was not misplaced." Bella said nothing, stunned. How long had Damien been preparing her for this night? She had almost _died _thrice over…might have made any number of fatal missteps…

"Why me?" Her heart was pounding so loudly she was sure he could hear it beating for release within her chest.

He half-turned. "Why indeed?"

And then he was facing her in a flash, so close she could feel his cool breath against her lips, tasting of something sweet and bitter all at once—lost innocence and dark promises. _The taste of death._ "Such _power_ running untapped and restrained beneath your skin…" He traced a single long white finger down her cheek, smooth and cool and sharp as bone. The touch sent a trembling shock through her body, and a thin trail of blood followed in its wake—but she did not flinch away. "Such _anger_ within you, such adamant, furious _desire_…" He tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes once more, and Bellatrix could almost imagine he was searching, probing, her mind stripped before him. "I know," he murmured, "the desperate hunger in your soul."

He released her again and stepped away, leaving her breathless. "_Magic_. Not the swish-and-flick wandwork of your classroom lessons, but _true _power—freedom and dominion over beasts and men, secrets of the shadows and the stars, the nightfall and the dawn. To make them all bow before you, to send them falling to their knees in terror and adoration, every dark impulse you have ever had freed from all restraints and realized—is that what you want?"

She drew a strangled, gasping breath. "Yes," she managed. "_Yes_."

He smiled his cold, serpentine smile. "Then you must learn to _take_ it."

"The book," she said slowly, mind racing. "And the venom—"

"For you," said Lord Voldemort, studying her carefully. "You will find use for it in the future, as well as for the…abilities…you displayed that night. My werewolves did their duty, in the end, though Fenrir Greyback was suitably punished for, shall we say, overstepping his authority." A flash of terrible anger in his reddened eyes passed so swiftly it might never have been there at all. _His _werewolves. Even the Darkest of creatures did his bidding, frightening a group of schoolchildren into a spectacular display of combat magic…and all to eventually lead them here tonight.

"And how," he was saying, "do you like my book?"

_Magicke Moste Eville. _Forbidden knowledge of the very oldest, Darkest Arts, laid bare before her desperate eyes. "I read it every night," she said fervently. "Sometimes every day. But I—" She bit her lip and tasted blood. "I have questions. So many questions."

"And I, beautiful _Bella_…" He touched magnetic fingers to her bloodied cheek again, and brought the red stain to her swollen lips. "…have all the answers."

The ember in her heart seemed to blaze up and expand. "What are you offering me…Lord?"

Locking eyes with her once more, he was silent for so long she thought she might have exceeded her bounds. Then he spoke a single, hissing word: "Anything."

And Bella's world exploded from within.

It was a sweeping, all-absorbing vision—she saw herself terrible and beautiful and _great, _possessing knowledge and power of vast, incomprehensible immensity, leading hundreds into battle, overriding the boundaries of human civilization, transcending the limits of magic, time, and space. Anyone who'd ever doubted her, anyone who'd ever tried to control her or abandon her, anyone who'd ever hurt her—all trembled and tumbled in her presence. _Nothing_ was impossible, not now, not ever—not with him.

She'd collapsed to the ground over the course of it, fallen to her knees in ecstasy and adulation, shaking and covered in a sheen of sweat. He stood over her, impassive, imploring: "And what, Bella…will you give me in return?"

There was only one possible answer.

"_Everything._"

Lord Voldemort smiled.


	6. Morsmordre

**DARK**  
Chapter VI – "Morsmordre"

* * *

**ENGLAND – **July 1974

"_Bella, watch out!"_

_The death-green spell fires past so close she can feel it scorch the delicate hairs on her forearm, calling the dormant snake and skull to life as the Mark writhes and throbs beneath her skin. She turns and darts sideways, shooting off rejoining curses at her assailants in rapid-fire succession, an exquisite, unyielding blaze of fury. The faces of their anonymous attackers are cloaked in shadow: they could be anyone, or no one at all. One by one they fall, and Bellatrix throws back her head to laugh._

_At her side, Rodolphus entwines a possessive hand around her waist as they watch the Mark on their arms glitter in the answering sky above them, burning emerald stars into the constellations. "There are more," he murmurs urgently. "Hundreds, thousands, maybe. Can we kill them all?"_

_Bellatrix reaches down to touch a bloody laceration marring the cheek of one of her lifeless victims—there's something recognizable in his sharp, aristocratic features and glassy grey eyes, a long-lost familiarity recalling searing hatred and _something else_, something she cannot, _will _not name. She brings the still-warm fluid to her tongue. "Every soul shall taste death," she promises. "_Puris omnia pura_."_

_Lightning flashes in the distance, casting the Mark in the sky into sharp relief. Bellatrix is dimly aware of Rodolphus having disappeared from her side, leaving her alone with the dead. A chill sweeps through the night, and she can _feel_ it: someone watching. "I know you're there, whoever you are." She fingers her wand, still sizzling with manic magical energy, and smiles a slow, dangerous smile. "Come out and play."_

_A gust of raw energy rushes up against her, stealing the air from her lungs and the wand from her hand. All around her the cold night air itself presses upon her, seizing her, dragging her down into the depths of something older and Darker than she can comprehend. She can't fight, can't scream, can only stare in horror as the dead all around her start to rise._

_If they were living only moments ago, their re-animated corpses show no signs of it: ill-constrained in tattered remains of robes, rotted flesh hangs from bones jutting out of gaping wounds, hair torn out in clumps and matted with old, dried blood. They amble toward her in stilted, jolting movements, marionettes clamouring to invisible strings. Their fingers are skeletal around her throat, squeezing, pulling, tearing—the familiar grey-eyed boy, wet and bloated in death, is laughing, a dead girl with coloured streaks in her hair presses cold, stiff lips to Bella's own, and the last thing she sees before everything goes black is the frenzied, crystalline shine of a madwoman's accusatory sapphire eyes._

Bellatrix woke with a strangled, asphyxiated gasp.

Heart racing, she shrank back into the comforting warmth of expensive green-velvet coverlets, grasping at an ephemeral nightmare rapidly fading into the depths of her subconscious. Her left forearm stung, curiously, but it bore no mark, not even a bruise. There had been—_Rodolphus._ Rodolphus had been with her, but he was in his chamber in the south wing, fast asleep like everyone else in the estate at this hour.

_Only a dream._

Bella lay for several minutes in the enormous canopied bed, attempting uneasily to fall back into slumber, before giving up and rising to throw on a gossamer dressing gown. The boudoir near the bed was cluttered with books and newspapers—her eyes swept over the now-familiar headlines of the Prophet: murder, mayhem, madness—it was always the same. The country was hovering on the threshold of mass hysteria, and no one seemed to know what to do or where to turn. Damien often gave solemn, reassuring speeches over the wireless, leading Bella to wonder how she ever could have missed the scathing sarcasm bleeding through each syllable.

Stifling a yawn, she turned and left the guest bedchamber on bare feet, easing its chestnut doors shut behind her as she stepped silently into the darkened nighttime corridor.

It had taken a great deal of argument and an unpleasant degree of begging to convince Druella to allow her to spend the summer with Rodolphus at his parents' estate, known to a clandestine few as the Death Eaters' acting headquarters (she suspected she had Damien's considerable skills of persuasion to thank, in the end—yet another debt in what was adding up to be an uncomfortably large pile). She had arrived just yesterday, brimming with anticipation—who could tell what excitements and dangers the next few weeks would bring?

The Lestrange estate was older than even Grimmauld Place, built on what was fertile magical ground in the days long before Merlin, and it reminded her of Hogwarts, in a way—all those stone walls and grand, centuries-old portraits. The Blacks had visited often over the years for various balls and luncheons when she and Rodolphus were still hated childhood rivals, and Bella remembered Walburga remarking more than once that the _reason _everything was so old was that the Lestranges had not been able to afford to purchase anything _new_ for several dozen decades. House Lestrange's dwindling Gringotts vault was the worst kept secret of wizarding high society, but nobody could deny they were expertly skilled at conveying non-existent wealth.

The ancestral portraits lining the walls overhead were still and sleeping in their frames, but outside the wind was howling, the windowpanes groaning and grating from the gales. Every few minutes a flash of lightning from the storm outside would illuminate the darkened corridors with an eerie glow. Bellatrix was about to descend the winding staircase leading to the south wing—and Rodolphus—when she froze at the sound of low, muted voices trailing out of an open door at the very end of the corridor. Her heartbeat quickened.

_He was here._

She stepped forward with cold feet on colder ground, breath gone icy in her throat. The familiar sibilant voice filtering down the corridor was uncommonly searing, scorching hot with anger—he was berating someone, someone unfortunate enough to have displeased him.

"I will not tolerate this level of ineptitude," came the hiss, followed by a stifled cry of pain. "_Find it _for me, Gibbon, or _suffer _the consequences." Another, louder, cry. _Gibbon_, here, at this hour? The rest of the Death Eaters had to have left hours ago, dismissed from what Rodolphus had told her was only one of many secret meetings behind locked doors that he had never been invited to attend. What desperate business had kept the professor and the Dark Lord so late after? Bella continued toward the door as if entranced, unable to resist the compulsion to see him face to face once more.

"I have found you a Gorgon, but _this_ is an impossible task, my Lord," came Gibbon's wheezy plea. "No one has been able to brew the Drink of Despair for a thousand years, not since—"

A chilling burst of laughter. "You speak to _me_ of impossibilities? I who have conquered Death and raised the dead?" Bellatrix froze still in her tracks again, the words awakening something horrifying dormant in her consciousness. A Defence Against the Dark Arts lecture from seemingly another lifetime ago had resurfaced in her memory:_The blood is capable of bringing the dead to life._

"With _my_ help," responded Gibbon, adding somewhat petulantly, "my Lord."

"Indeed," said Lord Voldemort, the word laced with venom. "Now I ask for help once more, and you refuse me, so close to success. I begin to believe you desire an end to our…partnership." Bellatrix crept closer, almost to the doorway—she could see their silhouetted forms against the far wall—the Dark Lord was standing over a kneeling Gibbon, wand raised.

"Never, my Lord!" cried Gibbon. "I desire only more time…" He trailed off uncertainly. "My Lord..?" Lord Voldemort's gaze had fixated on the open door, where Bella's shadow was darkening the entrance.

She stood deathly still as his eyes met hers—there was a glint of terrible, frightening fury in them as he looked at her, but it was gone in less than an instant, so quickly she might have imagined it, and he gave a slow, deliberate smile. "_Bella_."

Gibbon turned at the name, still kneeling before his Lord. "Out of bed after hours, Miss Black?" His mouth twitched unsettlingly in what might have been an attempt at a joking smile. "Lucky for the both of us this isn't Hogwarts."

"I couldn't sleep," Bellatrix blurted, unable to wrench her gaze away from the Dark Lord, and added unthinkingly, "Nightmares." Realizing too late how childish that seemed, she cringed.

"Nightmares," repeated Lord Voldemort, disregarding Gibbon entirely now as he stepped around the kneeling professor and very close to Bellatrix, seeming to take all the light and air out of the room as he moved. He was great, terrible, as magnificent as she remembered. "Tell me, Bella," he said softly, the words elucidated with a cold clarity but somehow faint and blurred in her rushing ears, "what could frighten one such as you?"

Her lips moved soundlessly for a moment before she could regain her bearings. "Only…impurities, Lord."

He studied her in cold amusement. "_Puris omnia pura_, Bella. To the Pure, all things are pure." She gaped at him—_those words, that phrase_—but before she could speak again, he was leaning even closer, one elegant white hand pressing her cheek to his as he breathed into her ear, "Do _I _frighten you, Bella? Are you afraid?"

Her own breath caught in her throat. "No," she said immediately, without daring to think, and again, to convince herself: "No."

She felt, rather than saw, his smile. "Perhaps…" he said quietly, fingers trailing down her throat, then lower,_ lower_—"…you should be."

He released her, lessening the pounding of her racing heart and half-turning back to Gibbon, still prostrate on the floor. "Get out," he hissed, and the professor scrambled to his feet, hurrying toward the door with profuse gratitude. "You have a fortnight," Lord Voldemort called after him, a steel edge to his voice. The door closed gently, and they were alone once more—she had dreamed of it, all those long nights back at Hogwarts after the night that had changed everything, but never quite like this.

Lord Voldemort said nothing for a moment, replacing the yew wand in the belt of his austere black robes and leaving Bellatrix hovering uncertainly in the doorway, the ghost of his touch still lingering on her skin. "Gibbon," he said finally, "has been assisting me with a…special project. He is finding its demands difficult of late. I do not take kindly, Bella, to servants who cannot obey."

"I see," said Bellatrix carefully, still finding it difficult to reconcile her eccentric Defence professor as a servant of the Dark Lord.

"Professor no longer," Lord Voldemort said suddenly, and she jumped—it was as though he had read her mind. "Albus Dumbledore—" he impaled the name with a vicious intensity—"will no longer be requiring his services."

Bellatrix attempted to make sense of that, mind racing. Would Hogwarts no longer have a covert Death Eater presence, then? How much, exactly, did the Hogwarts headmaster know? "He was…fired?"

Lord Voldemort gave a thin-lipped smile. "He has taken an indefinite leave of absence. But I tire of Gibbon, Bella…let us talk of _you_."

Bella's heart was hammering painfully within her chest. "Me…my Lord?"

He raised a mocking brow. "Is there any other _Bella_?" Without waiting for a reply, he continued, pacing the length of the chamber. "Your elders see you as a child. Naïve…fragile…helpless."

"I'm not a child." Tears welled shamefully in her eyes—all the rest could think so, but _him…_"I'm not."

"No," he agreed softly, dark eyes flitting swiftly up and down her gossamer-clad form with a restrained, possessive savagery; she flushed without daring to think why. "Not a child at all." A moment of ambiguous tension, and then—"When _I_ look at you, Bella, I see only vast, remarkable potential. You desire the intangible and the extraordinary, that which can be understood by few and implemented by fewer. You want things that lurk beyond the dreams of others…so I will teach you to make your nightmares theirs, and their nightmares will in turn become your dreams."

She was glistening with hunger, consumed once more by that inimitable, burning _need _that only he and his intoxicating words could seem to awaken—and _how_, in the end, was all she could think to whisper.

"I intend to mentor you privately," he said, watching carefully as a dozen different emotions flickered across her face. "All the knowledge they have withheld from you will be yours—but it will come with a price."

"I'll pay it," she said immediately, breathless with desire.

He spared her another of his scythe-like smiles, stepping closer and closer with every successive word until he was directly in front of her again. "Your loyalty shall be unwavering; your obedience unyielding. My expectations are high—you will fight twice as hard as the others, and be punished with thrice the severity. As my protégée, you have no right to fail. You are special. You are _mine_."

"I understand," said Bellatrix, voice catching slightly in her throat.

His red-rimmed eyes bore into her very soul. "I hope you do." With a final inscrutable look, he resumed pacing the chamber, speaking very quickly now. "The others—the eldest Lestrange boy, Damien's Heir, the rest of your school companions—will assist you with recruitment. It will not be easy to build an army directly beneath Dumbledore's crooked nose, but I welcome the challenge."

"An army, my Lord?" said Bella quickly. "Then it's as they say? You intend to start a war."

"You must overlook such vulgar mortal terms—I intend to start a _fire_, Bella, such as the world has never seen. Some will spread it, and others will be turned to ash, but it will blaze regardless, as all fires must." His eyes glinted red in the faint light. "There are flames within you already, are there not? Searing through your veins."

_The Dark embers in her soul, called in to life by his mere presence, threatening to consume her entirely. _"There are, my Lord." She paused. "I—I fear them."

"And there it is," said the Dark Lord quietly, an ironic tinge of laughter in his voice. "_Impurities_ are not all that frighten her, after all." Her mouth opened, then shut tightly again. He smiled. "Fear is a powerful thing, Bella. You will learn to own it, _use _it. Only the weak fear Fear."

She lowered her eyes with effort. "Yes, my Lord."

He went on without further comment. "The new Headmaster has wasted no time in establishing an intricate spy network throughout the castle—at Hogwarts, not only the walls have ears, and portraits, suits of armour, ghosts, elves, even shadows all have eyes as well. It will be necessary to bypass monitored channels of communication entirely."

Thinking fast, Bellatrix said incisively, "The Hogsmeade cave. No one else could know about the mirror passage."

He eyed her with cool, detached approval. "_Very _good. But how to get you there?" He let the query hang precariously for a moment, then drew his wand. She swallowed nervously as he began to conjure something smoky and unfamiliar in the air, but it was done in an instant, and his voice shifted dangerously into something softer: "Turn around."

She obeyed with effort, heart thundering as she felt him approach, bringing a rush of chilled air with him as he swept her hair away from her back. Her eyes shut tight of their own accord, fingernails digging into her palms as cold fingers grazed her neck, a gasp escaping her lips as his hands ran lightly over the skin of her collarbone, placing something hard and smooth around her throat. "There," he murmured finally, and she opened her eyes.

It was a necklace.

Cool opaque stones of darkest obsidian, fire glowing underneath the smoke, melding and imprinting into her pale skin.

"Onyx," said Lord Voldemort from behind her. "The black gemstone."

Suddenly dizzy, Bellatrix struggled to find words. "It—I—_thank you_, my Lord. It's…perfect. I don't know what I've done to merit such a gift."

"Ah, but Bella, this is no ordinary gift." Fingers skirting once more across her skin, he traced the black stones, one by one. "Whenever I have need of you, whenever I require you or call for you, it will burn white-hot against your skin, and you are to Apparate to my side immediately." She was overcome at the brilliance of it, the sheer magnificence. "When you are at Hogwarts, and you feel it burn, go directly to the common room fire, and when you are alone, I will appear there to give you further instructions."

"Yes, my Lord," she managed once more, still hyper-aware of his presence behind her like a cold dark dream—one from which she never wanted to wake up.

As if sensing it, he leaned still closer, pressing tight against the stones. "By the end of this coming year, the world will know my name…and yours." Another ghosting touch, from the curve of her neck to the curve of her mouth, fingers brushing her trembling lower lip—uncertain how to respond, she tried only to control her laboured breathing before he stepped back so suddenly she nearly fell, biting her tongue against the longing protest rising in her throat. As soon as he was no longer touching her she yearned, _burned_ for more. She was new, she was exhilarated, and the fire inside of her was suddenly _everything_—power coiled and spiralled within, dangerous with possibility.

"I will call on you again when I am ready to begin our lessons," said Lord Voldemort, dismissing her with a stinging insouciance. "For now, find release from nightmares."

"And if I can't?" she said boldly, meeting his eyes in what was dangerously close to a challenge.

There was a chilling finality in his smile. "Then release will find you."

When she re-entered the guest chamber—and finally slumber—at last, it was only to fall into a strange shadow world where icy hands caressed her body—cold fingers up and down her spine, the black stones at her throat ablaze and igniting into flame.

* * *

The next morning, she found Rodolphus in his father's study, poring over the Daily Prophet with furrowed brows. Creeping up behind him, she covered his eyes. "Surprise."

Rodolphus threw the paper down with a smirk and twisted around to seize her waist, throwing her to the fur-lined carpet in a heap of laughing limbs and positioning himself over her to kiss her roughly. She responded with equal fervour, and his mouth moved downward from her lips to her neck—then stopped.

"What's this?" He was toying with the gemstones at her throat, a curious expression on his face. "Have you worn this before?"

"Of course," Bellatrix lied, pulling away now, suddenly discomfited. "Family heirloom. I've worn it dozens of times."

"I can sense it from here," said Rodolphus, without tearing his eyes away from the necklace. "It's powerfully Dark."

Bella gave a breezy laugh. "When have the Blacks been anything _but_? Honestly, darling, if I'd known you were so against cursed jewellery I'd never have bought you those charmed cuff links." Desperate to change the subject, as he still wore that ill at ease expression, she hurried on, "What are you doing in here, anyway? Playing lord of the manor while your father's away?"

"There's only one Lord of this manor," Rodolphus said evenly, and somehow Bella suspected he didn't mean his father.

Without meeting his eyes, Bellatrix sat up and flipped through the Prophet herself—nothing new_ there_—with determined nonchalance. "Will he be here again tonight?" she asked casually, careful to sound indifferent to the answer. "The Dark Lord?"

Rodolphus straightened his collar and shrugged curtly. "Ask my father. He's the only Death Eater in this household."

"Not for long," said Bella absently, tracing a finger down his shirt—he was so _warm_, always, not like—but he pushed her hand away, suddenly irritated.

"What happened between you and the Dark Lord, that first night? When he asked for you alone?"

Bellatrix groaned theatrically. "How many times must you ask me this? The answer never changes—"

He ignored this, interrupting, "You've been different, since then."

"Everything's been different!" she exclaimed indignantly. "_Ask your father._"

Rodolphus gave a sharp growl of frustration. "I don't like the way he looks at you. Like he wants to…possess you…_devour _you…"

Bella laughed sharply. "You don't wear jealousy well, Lestrange."

He rounded on her violently. "Oh, there's something to be jealous of?"

Eyes flashing, she said fiercely, "Perhaps he's chosen to elevate me above the rest of you! Perhaps _he_ thinks I'm extraordinary, thinks I'm _special_—"

Rodolphus laughed again with a wild ferocity. "And what makes you so 'special,' Bella? Is it _this_?" She gasped as he shoved a hand between her legs.

A burst of wandless magic exploded from her hands—he staggered backwards at the sudden force, wincing. Breathing hard, Bellatrix waited a moment for the anger to ebb away before saying softly, "I resent your implications."

He didn't respond, brooding in silence. Frustrated, Bella took his face in her hands as gently as she dared and said intently, "Listen to me. This is our time. We're on the cusp of revolution, _we _have the fire to start it within us already—the Dark Lord has only provided the incendiary incantation! We're a _team_, together we're unstoppable, and _I need you with me in this_." She hesitated, the words heavy in her throat as she struggled to admit just how true they were. "I need you, Rodolphus."

He eyed her searchingly, expression unreadable—then visibly relaxed, all tension running out of his sharp-edged features as they formed instead into a suggestive smile. "I may require a little more convincing."

Bellatrix grinned and leaned down to kiss him just hard enough to hurt before reaching for his trousers—but in the next instant, the study door was creaking open, and she threw herself upright just in time for the tall, willowy figure of Arsinoë Lestrange to enter the room.

From what little Bella had seen of Rodolphus's mother, she was cruel and spiteful to her sons (though in public nothing if not doting) while simpering and affectionate to those she felt could further advance her family's position in society: namely, Bellatrix. Walburga and the other Black elders detested her, and for once, Bella was inclined to agree.

"_Oh_—" she said now, with a faux-embarrassed laugh—"Rodolphus, darling, I hadn't realized you were here. I was looking for your father."

"He's out, Mother," said Rodolphus coldly.

"Of course, of course," said Arsinoë with another nervous laugh. "_Business._ Then Bellatrix, dear, I suppose this should go directly to you." Bella looked up, confused, and noticed for the first time an opened envelope in the Lestrange woman's hand, embossed with the Black Family crest. "I'm afraid I have some bad news," she continued, trying very hard to appear morose but clearly thrilled to have been on the cutting edge of it. "There's been a death, you see."

Bellatrix went ashen, all the air sweeping out of her lungs. "Not—my sisters—"

"_Salazar, _no," said Arsinoë with a horrified little gasp. "It's your uncle, dear. Pollux's youngest son…sad to say I never knew him…"

_Alphard. _That mysterious foreign illness had finally caught up to him, then. It was an inopportune time for tragedy to strike the Blacks—and Andy, for one, had to be devastated.

"Let me see that," Bellatrix demanded, seizing the letter and scanning it quickly—Cygnus was insisting that she return to London immediately for the funeral, and remain with the Family for an indefinite mourning period thereafter. She gritted her teeth—so much for spending the summer at Lord Voldemort's acting headquarters. Alphard had managed to stir up trouble even in death.

"Stay," murmured Rodolphus, playing with her hair as he read the letter over her shoulder. "Stay with me."

"You know I can't," said Bellatrix, defeated, as she summoned her trunk from the guest chamber and prepared for imminent Disapparition. "Family calls, and it's never wise to keep them waiting." She kissed Rodolphus chastely on the cheek, ignoring his mother's delighted expression, and whispered quickly in his ear. "I'll be back as soon as I can—owl me when he's here."

Without waiting for a reply, she turned and spun to Grimmauld Place, reluctantly leaving the Lestrange estate and all its dark secrets behind.

* * *

Within the House of Black, funerals were a grand affair.

A prestigious wizarding cemetery housing the remains of only the most ancient of magical families—most of which had died out centuries ago—was located just outside London, near a wet, grey, marsh-like field. Arcturus had selected the most esteemed Ministry funerary official for the ceremony, which had thus far consisted mainly of a lot of Latin chants and solemn formal wandwork encasing the coffin in eerie black smoke while the four dozen or so attendees, dressed in the most elaborate of mourning robes, looked on from a distance in impassive contemplation.

"Uncle Alphard would have hated this," muttered Andromeda, sniffling a little as she gestured angrily at the opulent funeral procession before them. "Stuffy, traditionalist,_boring—_like any of them even knew him at all."

Bella did her best to appease her sister with a vague noise of agreement, but she was rubbing the black stones at her throat distractedly, impatient to be done with it. Cissy was better at these things—she was already soothing Andy in her patient, quiet way, careful not to attract the attention of the elders.

"I am sorry for your loss," came a familiar drawling voice approaching fast behind her, and Bellatrix spun around, livid.

"What are you doing here, Malfoy? This is a Family affair."

Lucius merely gave a small smile and wrapped a blasé arm around Narcissa's waist. Blushing slightly, Cissy looked to Bellatrix in warning. "Lucius is my guest, Bella."

"Oh, _is _he?" fumed Bellatrix, but before she could say precisely what she thought of _that_, Narcissa interrupted coolly, "Lucius so recently lost his father, Bella, and he asked me to attend the funeral."

So Cissy and Malfoy had been bonding over family deaths, had they? Too precious. The public announcement of Abraxus's death had come just last week, leaving Lucius as the new Head of his House; Bella had been rather…preoccupied, at the time. She smiled sharply, meeting Lucius's eyes. "Ah yes, _dragon pox_, wasn't it?"

He nodded, inserting just the right amount of grief into his expression and squeezing Cissy's hand. "A great, unexpected tragedy for us all."

"I can only imagine," seethed Bellatrix. "Dear sisters, excuse us for a moment? I'd like a private word with our distinguished guest." Ignoring Narcissa's protests and the disapproving looks of nearby extended family members, she took Lucius by his custom-tailored cloak and dragged him away from the chanting and smoke, into the depths of the fog-filled graveyard.

"I do hope you appreciated my efforts toward pleasantries," Lucius was drawling. "The strain was considerable."

"Yes, very nice, very well done, you _bastard._" Bellatrix released him upon reaching a spot sufficiently out of both vision and hearing of the guests. "What do you think you're playing at, Malfoy? How dareyou involve my sister in this!"

"Narcissa is as capable of making choices as you are," said Lucius, brushing off his black cloak with a look of distaste.

"There are certain choices she should never have to make! Cissy loves you because she loves shiny, pretty things—if she knew who you truly are—what you've done—"

"Then she would love me none the less," finished Lucius, amused. "You underestimate her, Bellatrix."

"As you underestimate_ me_," she broke in angrily. "If she's put in danger because of you—_if you hurt her_—so help me Salazar, I will tear you limb from limb."

"Spare me," said Lucius, sounding bored. "You aren't the only one aiming to keep Narcissa safe."

"Then we're united in that, if nothing else." Bellatrix eyed him suspiciously, only now noticing how drawn and tired he looked, pale skin marred with dark under-eye circles and hallowed cheekbones. "Do we have an understanding?"

"Of sorts," Lucius replied. "I do feel that my understanding might have surpassed yours." He was staring, strangely, at her arms, bare in the black summer mourning gown. Annoyed, she crossed them immediately.

"What are you talking about, Malfoy? You have no idea what I've been told—"

"—but I can guess what you _haven't_." And he reached out, quick as a serpent, to seize her left forearm.

"Let go of me!" she exclaimed, struggling to reach the wand contained in her satchel, but he held fast for a moment, sharp eyes boring into her skin, before releasing her with a triumphant smile.

"It's as I thought, then. Our new Lord hasn't seen fit to Mark his favourite schoolgirl…" His eyes trailed up to the onyx necklace and narrowed. "…though perhaps he has seen fit to collarher like a dog. A bitch, if you will."

Before Bellatrix could choke out a heated response, Cissy was rushing toward them out of the fog, running from the direction of the funeral. "_There _you are!" she breathed, clearly agitated—Lucius went to her immediately—"Bella, come quickly—they've read the will. There's been…well, there's a slight problem with the testament."

Puzzled, Bellatrix and Lucius gave each other one last hostile glare before hurrying back to the procession with Narcissa. When they arrived, Walburga was shouting, barely restrained by Pollux and Arcturus, and the guests were in an uproar. "Burn it!" shrieked Walburga, pointing at the coffin. "He no longer has any right to be buried here!"

"Uncle Alphard left his entire fortune to Si—to our former cousin," explained a worried Narcissa in her ear. "There's nothing they can do about it; the Ministry official says the will was bound by magic."

Andy was staring at the scene before them, looking stunned. "I can't believe he did it," she said hazily. "I can't."

Fighting a sudden wave of nausea, Bella searched for their father in the midst of the commotion, but Cygnus was already at her side, pulling his wife and daughters away from the crowd. "Time to go," he said grimly, preparing for side-along Apparition. "Walburga can scream all she likes, but the rest of us have no more room for scandal."

In the end, of course, the damage was done. The latest disgrace to the name of Black was burned off the tapestry like his runaway nephew, but no scorch mark could erase his legacy: Sirius's infuriating face was grinning out of every gossip paper in Britain within a day, freshly infamous as the wealthiest young bachelor in the wizarding world.

* * *

The intended mourning period instead became one of involuntary house arrest as Arcturus ordered everyone to remain in London while this new scandal died down. While most visits to the city were a whirlwind of excitement, full of gown fittings, balls, and trips to Diagon Alley, this one was sombre and on edge as the sisters were forbidden to leave the estate without the express permission of the elders. Bella was not the only one to resent this: Andy spent an unusual amount of time behind the locked door of her guest chamber, and Cissy complained daily about missing Manoir Noire (and a litany of summer beach parties), and the general mood about Grimmauld Place was tense, sullen, and melancholy.

In what Bellatrix presumed was a misguided effort to alleviate it (or, more likely, to keep the three of them out of the way), Druella had set them with the task of sorting through the attic in search of vintage gowns and jewellery that could be Transfigured into the latest fashions—an undertaking she no doubt imagined to be the height of entertainment, but that only Narcissa, predictably, was thrilled by. Andy seemed more interested in the various strange objects and half-forgotten portraits lying about in boxes, and Bella sat sullenly in a corner reading _Curses and Counter-Curses _by Vindictus Veridian, an unexpected gift that had arrived by mysterious black owl post just last night. Enclosed had been a note in the same elegant handwriting as the old riddles: _Bella – I will call for you soon. Prepare for me. _It was unsigned, but there was no possible doubt as to the identity of the sender. She shivered a little in remembered anticipation: he had not forgotten her.

"Look at this!" Cissy was exclaiming, holding up a glittering wrapped parcel: a necklace. "These are real opals—oh, they're lovely, Bella, and ever so much better than those dull black stones you've been wearing lately."

Bellatrix ignored this, warning idly as she turned a page, "Careful, Cissy, would you? That thing is probably cursed to kill."

Narcissa gave a long-suffering sigh. "Andy? Do you want it? It's far too bold for my colouring, but on you and Bella—_Andy_, is that a _love letter_?"

Bella looked up. Cissy had crossed over to where Andromeda was kneeling over a box, having been seemingly absorbed in its contents but now hastening to shove a slip of paper into her pocket. "Of course not!" she was insisting, too loudly. "Just a piece of paper—"

"You're blushing!" exclaimed Cissy.

"Let me see it," commanded Bellatrix, tossing the book down and joining her sisters.

"No!" said Andy helplessly, looking increasingly distraught as her sisters stared at her in bemusement.

Narcissa giggled, delighted. "_Andromeda! _Have you been keeping a secret love affair from us?"

Bella grasped at her sister's robes, searching for the letter. "Come on, Andy, whoever it is he can't be worse than Lucius Malfoy."

Cissy's playful shove was nothing to Andy's decidedly un-playful one: Bellatrix stumbled to the ground as Andromeda clamoured to her feet and stormed toward the door, looking near tears. "For the record," she said angrily, "it's _not _a love letter, but even if it were—do you think you're the only one allowed to receive mysterious parcels in the middle of the night, Bella? You can't expect me to believe _Lestrange _is sending you _books_."

With that, she slammed the attic door behind her. Stunned, Bellatrix and Narcissa listened to the sound of her incensed footsteps carry down the stairs for a moment before Bella said lightly into the silence, "_That _wasn't an overreaction."

Cissy, however, looked troubled. "What did she mean, Bella? Who's been sending you books?" She glanced over to where Bellatrix had left _Curses and Counter-Curses_ lying a few feet away, then swallowed. "Never mind. I don't want to know. I'm going to make sure she's alright." And Narcissa, too, left the attic, leaving Bella alone.

She sat up and gave the nearby box an aggravated kick—a flurry of scrolls and parchments fell out, one hitting Bellatrix directly in the face. She was about to rip it in two when a phrase on the paper caught her eye, and she stopped. Gasped.

_Viridis Despero_, read the parchment, words scrawled neatly in the midst of a long list of what appeared to be obscure potions: _known as the Drink of Despair._

"No one has been able to brew the Drink of Despair for a thousand years," she repeated in a hollow whisper. Isn't that what Gibbon had said? Yet here it was, on a yellowed piece of parchment in the Black Family's attic. And there was something about that name…something else, something long forgotten…

She scanned the rest of the papers and scrolls around her in a frenzy. They appeared to be an inventory of sorts, listing Dark and illegal items that the Family kept hidden in storage, with only a single mark next to _Viridis Despero._

Bellatrix rushed to the far side of the attic, searching for the trap door that she knew concealed the secret storage chamber and finding it in an instant—not for nothing had she won every single childhood hiding game. Slipping inside with little effort, she dug immediately through the labels on the faded, dusty potions shelf. _Chelidonium_… dragon poison… _Weedosoros… _and there. _Viridis Despero, _clearly labelling…an empty space on the shelf.

She stepped back, head spinning, overcome with a crushing wave of déjà vu, and suddenly, the name's bizarre familiarity made sense.

In a flash, she was nine years old again, blackmailed into stealing an unknown potion from the Family's storage after having been caught tormenting a trespassing Muggle child with a stolen wand.

There was only one person in wizarding Britain who could still have a vial of what seemed to be the most wanted potion in the world.

And that person, Bellatrix knew now with devastating certainty, was Damien Rosier.

* * *

The vast labyrinthine underworld of the Ministry of Magic had changed since Bella had entered it last—or perhaps, she reflected, it was the same as always, and only the outside world was different.

Visiting the Ministry headquarters as a child, when Arcturus had still been acting as Advisor to the Minister, she remembered an immense sense of grandeur, calm and commanding, in every marble archway and officiated robe. Now, sneaking out to visit it at nightfall with her parents unawares and the country on the brink of chaos, the governing body of the wizarding world seemed hopelessly, helplessly ineffective, inspiring derision in place of childlike awe.

"May I help you?" inquired a harried young clerk upon Bellatrix's entrance into the grand atrium, dressed as inconspicuously as possible in simple grey robes.

"I need to see my uncle," she said impatiently. "Damien Rosier."

The clerk's eyebrows nearly met his hairline. "Do you have an appointment, Miss…?"

"You know very well who I am," snarled Bellatrix.

His eyes narrowed. "You'll find your name will get you no favours here, Miss _Black. _This isn't your grandfather's Ministry. Mr. Rosier is a very busy man, with no time for personal engagements—"

Bellatrix laughed loudly, drawing several stares from hurrying passersby. "Let's see what _he _has to say about that, shall we?"

"Is there a problem here, Cattermole?"

Bella turned to find herself face-to-face with a severe, well-groomed official in an immaculate, expensive Ministry suit. The gold badge on his chest read _Crouch – Department of Magical Law Enforcement. _This, then, was Damien's immediate subordinate, the famously authoritarian Barty Crouch.

"No, sir," said the clerk, colouring slightly. "Merely informing her of the rules, sir—the girl thinks she can waltz into the Ministry to visit her uncle whenever she pleases."

Crouch turned to Bellatrix, studying her in a vaguely academic way, his austere expression betraying no sign of either interest or recognition—until he spoke, saying flatly, "When her uncle is the current Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Cattermole, she _can_."

The clerk reddened. "As you say, sir. Apologies, miss. Please follow me to the D.M.L.E. offices—"

"No need," Crouch interjected brusquely. "Miss Black, I shall escort you myself." He took off smartly in the direction of the elevators, and with a single gloating backwards glance at the unfortunate clerk, Bellatrix followed.

"I appreciate your assistance, Mr. Crouch," she said finally, after a few moments of awkward elevator silence.

"My pleasure, Miss Black," said Crouch tersely, looking straight ahead. _Floor Five. Floor Seven. Floor Nine. _"What, may I ask, is your business with your uncle here today?"

"I—it's—well—complicated," said Bella vaguely, weak with relief as she was saved from further explanation by the elevator doors opening into a narrow marble corridor, directly in front of a tall alabaster door engraved with large capital letters: DAMIEN ROSIER, HEAD OF MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT.

Crouch strode forward and—with a quick, firm knock—swung open the door.

The back of Damien's golden head was visible just over the back of his enormous marble chair, facing away from his enormous marble desk—at the sound of their entrance, he turned, surprised, and another head emerged over the edge of the desk: this one dark-haired and decidedly female.

"_Oh_!" wailed the unknown, mortified girl, covering her face with one hand and grappling for what appeared to be her Ministry robes—scattered haphazardly about the office—with the other. "I—I can explain—"

"That won't be necessary," Crouch said coldly, and Damien—somehow inhumanly collected as always, as if he'd been interrupted while carrying on an important business correspondence—smiled amiably. "Yes, Miss Jones, you're free to go. Excellent work today—I expect you'll find the remainder of your apprenticeship here to be _most_pleasurable."

The girl choked out an unintelligible sob and nearly threw herself out of the room. With a scathing, disgusted look at Damien, Crouch followed, and the alabaster door slammed shut behind him.

Bellatrix turned to her uncle, unsure whether to be critical or amused but not, she had to admit, in the least bit surprised. "Crouch isn't happy," she managed.

"Fortunately," said Damien, straightening his white officiate robes, "the happiness of Bartemius Crouch has never been high on my list of concerns."

"And where, I wonder, does 'magical law enforcement' rank on that list?"

Damien smirked. "I'm afraid that information is classified." He gestured to the empty seat in front of the great oak desk, and Bellatrix sat reluctantly. "To what, dear niece, do I owe this entirely unexpected but no less pleasant surprise?"

She avoided the question, looking leisurely around the office. It was as lavish and opulent as anyone would expect—Damien played his part well. A Ministry blueprint of the skull and snake insignia was plastered on the wall behind him, ink dripping with hideous irony. _The Dark Mark_, it read in huge, austere block letters. Bellatrix kept her expression blankly neutral.

"Do you remember me as a child, Uncle?" she said at last.

He smiled. "But of course. Bella Elladora, terror of house elves and small Muggle children alike. Little appears to have changed."

"Everything has changed," said Bellatrix sharply, recalling her words to Rodolphus. "You've seen to that."

Damien traced a wine glass on the desk with a single elegant gloved finger, saying mildly, "Have you come to charge me with corrupting your innocence? You accuse me unjustly—I dare say you're virtually incorruptible." Bella said nothing, playing with the necklace, and he started upon noticing the jewels around her neck. "But _Bella_—has he—are these—" He reached out worshipfully toward the onyx stones, and Bellatrix struck—lightning-fast, she encircled his left wrist, pulling down the white silk glove.

There, stark and jet-black against his skin, matching the wanted poster behind the desk perfectly, was the Death Eater snake and skull symbol. _Mark_, Lucius had said. _The Dark Mark. _It was beautiful and grotesque and _extraordinary_—and gone again in an instant as Damien hastily covered it once more, only to backhand her smartly across the face. The blow sent her, gasping, to the floor.

"Do you have any ideawhat could be compromised if anyone else saw what you have just seen?" He was speaking quickly, wildly, impeccable composure for once giving way to an edge of panic. It was tremendously unsettling.

"I only wanted—I didn't know—"

"You know what he permits you to know!" It looked as though he might hit her again—she flinched, but he was regaining control now, drawing back his hand with effort and reaching instead to pull her to her feet. Bellatrix said nothing, shaken—he had never shown anger to her before. "This is a dangerous game, sweet niece, and the stakes are high. If you want to play, you must learn to _respect_ those manoeuvring ahead of you, and _never_—" He traced her red cheek in an uncanny imitation of the Dark Lord's touch—"forget who made you a player."

She eyed him resentfully, and the hard edges of his face softened into their customary pleasant expression. "All things in time, Bella," he said softly. "The Dark Lord has great plans for you, and it seems…" His eyes trailed down to the necklace once more. "…he has already devised an alternative means to initiate them."

Bellatrix swallowed, the stones feeling heavy on her throat. "Lucius Malfoy," she said stiffly, "implies otherwise."

"Lucius is already of age," said Damien with careful patience, "and no longer under Albus Dumbledore's watchful eye. For now, you serve your Master better un-Marked."

Bella's mouth twisted as Lucius's taunting voice echoed in her head. "He's not my…Master."

Damien laughed at that, and she was struck again with that first shocking image of him dressed all in black, kneeling in a small underground chamber, all-consuming devotion tangible in his voice as he gazed at the man he called _Master_. "All things in time," he repeated smoothly, walking back to the great oak desk. "Now. Is there anything else I can illuminate for you today?"

"_Viridis Despero._" The words tumbled out of her mouth too fast to stop them. "I remember."

He turned with perilous slowness. "Going back on our bargain, Bella? After all these years?"

Bellatrix stood her ground against the warning pounding in her chest. "You coerced a child into stealing a rare Dark potion that no one has brewed in centuries. Why?"

His cornflower eyes aligned with her grey, each pair unyielding. "The opportunity presented itself…and whatever else might be said of me, Bella Elladora, I do _not _waste opportunities."

"And if the Black Family would like its potion store restocked?" bluffed Bellatrix. "If Orion has noticed what's missing from hisprivate collection?"

"Then I suggest you lie well," said Damien, cool smile twisting into a sneer. "The terms of our agreement still stand, and I wouldn't think your elders would be particularly thrilled about the things their little girl has been up to lately."

Bella's eyes narrowed at the overt threat. "_I_ wouldn't think your _Master _would be particularly thrilled about you spoiling his plans."

"You presume to know those plans?" He arched a brow. "Why, Bella, I don't think we've been having the same conversation."

Bellatrix clenched her fists in frustration. They were on the same side now; there should be no need for this. But the same logic that told her to confide in her uncle, to tell him what she had heard—what the Dark Lord himself was seeking—also reminded her that Damien Rosier was never to be trusted. If he knew, he could present the potion to Lord Voldemort himself, or even condemn her for possessing what may very well have been forbidden information. And what was to say he didn't know already?

"You're wasting your time," said Damien suddenly, breaking her gaze. "If Gibbon can't find it, what makes you more able?"

She jolted, pointing an accusatory finger. "I knew it! You _do_ know! You know—Gibbon?"

"The Dark Lord alone knows all his followers…but I make it my business to be personally acquainted with the majority," said Damien, darkly amused. "Gibbon, for one, is a_deeply _disconcerting human being. And no," he continued over Bella's started question, "I no longer have the potion. You can't possibly believe it wouldn't already be in the Dark Lord's possession if I did."

"What did you do with it?" demanded Bellatrix relentlessly.

He studied her a moment before answering. "I sold the vial you brought me to the highest bidder; part of a black market trading coup it will do no one any services to elaborate on. I couldn't have known the value it would have upon the Dark Lord's return—he was abroad at the time, performing magic beyond all of our darkest imaginings."

"Why does he need it so desperately?" Her voice was barely above a whisper. "What does it _do_?"

"It's Death," Damien said softly. "The Killing Curse in liquid form; purified, distilled despair. Drink it and watch all your worst nightmares come kicking and screaming into life, dragged from the farthest, most sinister depths of your soul, destroying you from the inside out." He gave a grim, histrionic smile. "I imagine the Dark Lord's uses for such a potion are many and varied." Bellatrix shuddered involuntarily as half-remembered visions of walking, animated corpses danced across her eyelids.

There came an abrupt, lazy knock at the door, and she jumped. "Enter," called Damien, prepared this time for visitors, and Dorcas Meadowes opened the door.

The girl stepping into the office was more neatly dressed than the careless, rebellious student Bella knew, but she'd kept the ridiculous blue streaks in her hair. Dorcas—_Cassie_—gave no sign of recognizing Bellatrix now, though, not even sparing her a second glance as she nodded to Damien.

"Sorry to interrupt, sir, but the Head of the Auror Department has a new detainee he says you'll be interested in."

"Indeed. Tell Nott I'll be upstairs shortly."

Cassie nodded briskly and left without acknowledging Bella, who stared at her retreating back, taken aback. Damien was speaking—"What did you say?" said Bellatrix hazily.

He raised his eyebrows. "Go home, Bella. Await the Dark Lord's summons and put the Drink of Despair out of your mind—there are more pressing matters."

She swallowed the vicious retort rising in her throat. "Of course. Thank you for your time, Uncle."

He smiled tightly, and she rushed to the door. "And Bellatrix?" She half-turned, hand on the doorknob. "Should anything you have heard or _seen_ today leave this office…"

"It won't." She left the room.

A flash of bright blue hair was just disappearing round the corner, headed toward the elevators—"Dorcas!" shouted Bellatrix, half-running down the corridor. The blue-haired figure didn't stop. "_Cassie_! Wait!"

She turned so slowly that Bella had caught up in moments, breathing hard. "Bellatrix Black, speaking to me?" She gave a sardonic grin. "An honour I dream not of."

"What was _that_?" demanded Bella. "Are we strangers now?"

Cassie's eyes widened in counterfeit innocence. "Aren't we? I would've thought so, for all the times we've talked the past few months."

Bellatrix bit her lip. "I've been…busy."

"Right," said Cassie. "Well then. So am I."

She made to set off again, and Bella said hastily, "You—why—what are you doing at the Ministry?"

"Always so coherent, love," said Cassie. She shrugged, relenting. "My aunt got me an apprenticeship with the Auror Department. Nott asked for me specifically, isn't that interesting?"

"Interesting…" Bellatrix repeated, and the other girl smirked.

"So long as I'm not _curse-breaking_, it's sort of fun…oh the people you'll meet…"

"_You're _a Ministry apprentice?" Bella broke in incredulously. Lucius sang the program's praises often enough—by all accounts he'd managed to manipulate his own Ministry apprenticeship into a prestigious entry level position post-graduation (_politician_, she thought fleetingly—Lucius was made to be a politician, not a soldier)—but _Dorcas_? She choked out a short laugh. "Stay away from my uncle, then."

"Yeah, nobody gave Hestia Jones that little piece of advice," said Cassie with another slight smirk. "Never fear, Trixie, I'm immune to the boss's questionable charms."

Bella's fingers flickered up unconsciously to massage her still-stinging cheek. "'Questionable' is one way to put it," she muttered.

Cassie was watching her shrewdly. "Let me guess. Family feud?"

"Not exactly." Bellatrix grit her teeth with renewed resentment. "He took something from me, and I want it back."

"If there's one thing I've noticed about you, Trix," Cassie said dryly, ignoring Bella's dirty look, "it's that you always get what you want. Why not just take it, whatever it is?"

"I don't exactly know where to start looking," snapped Bellatrix. "If _you _know where to find what might be the rarest potion in the wizarding world, by all means—" She stopped abruptly upon realizing what she'd just said, but it was too late—Cassie had an odd look on her face.

"It just so happens," she said slowly, "that I might." She grabbed Bella's hand before she had time to react, taking off not in the direction of the elevators but toward an unmarked wooden door at the end of the corridor. "Let's go, I know a shortcut out of here!"

"What about Nott?" managed Bellatrix, pulled along despite herself. "He's waiting—"

"Bugger Nott!" said Cassie gleefully, linking arms. "Bugger your uncle, and bugger the whole bloody Ministry! We, my dearest Trixie Black, have better places to be."

The unmarked door, when opened, let out a deafening roar. Bella cried out, covering her ears, but Cassie pulled her through—narrowly missing half a dozen passersby, one of whom cursed at her vehemently—and hastily shut it again. The door disappeared into a dirty once-white wall when they were on the other side of it, and Bellatrix looked around, astonished, as her eyes and ears adjusted to an impossible array of new sights and sounds.

Hundreds of figures—none of them in robes—rushed back and forth through a wide, foul-smelling tunnel, shouting at each other as they walked or ran. It reminded her vaguely of a bizarrely distorted, filthy, overpopulated King's Cross. She threw herself back against the now blank wall as a massive train—twice the size and volume of the Hogwarts Express—came bellowing through a nearby track and dozens of the figures mobbed toward the opening doors. "Mind the gap," sounded a crisp female voice.

Bellatrix clutched at Cassie, who looked entirely unperturbed. "What is this place?"

Cassie looked at her strangely. "The tube, of course." When Bella continued to stare blankly, she prompted, "The London Underground? The Ministry has a secret entrance—hang on!" She stared at Bellatrix with emerging realization. "You sheltered little rich girl…you've never been inside Muggle London before, have you?" She gave a tremendous laugh. "_Oh, _that's brilliant." She laughed again.

Muggle London? Then...all these people…not even Mudbloods. _Muggles._ Bellatrix shuddered, feeling a wave of nausea sweep over her that couldn't have been solely from the smell. "We have to go back," she said immediately, disgust and panic overriding her taste for the forbidden. "I can't be seen here—it's repulsive—"

Cassie smiled crookedly. "Relax_, _Trixie. Nobody's going to tattle on you." She started to pull her toward what appeared to be the restrooms, but Bellatrix stood her ground.

"Listen, _Dorcas_. Whatever godforsaken London hellhole you're dragging me to will _not _have what I need—"

"Tell you what," interrupted Cassie. "If it doesn't, I'm your house elf for life. Whatever you ask, your wish is my command. You'll never have to do a single Charms assignment ever again; Flitwick won't be able to contain his joy." Bella paused, taken aback, and Cassie quirked a brow, a sudden intensity in her gaze. "But ifyou dofind whatever it is you're looking for tonight…you owe me_ just one favour_. And I won't be asking you to do my Charms homework."

Feeling increasingly desperate, Bellatrix shook her head in exasperation. "You are _impossible_—"

"Do we have a deal?" Cassie extended a firm hand. With only a slight moment of hesitation, Bellatrix shook it with a grimace, and a strange undercurrent of energy ran through them both at the touch. "Good," said Cassie, suddenly relaxed again. "Now first things first, time to get out of these robes."

Fifteen minutes later, Bellatrix Black boarded a train in the London Underground dressed in what amounted, on the whole, to the sort of lingerie Druella would designate as deeply, utterly, _deathly _inappropriate.

Cassie had Transfigured the drab grey robes into something almost obscene: a sparse expanse of skin-tight silver fabric now exposed more skin than Bella had ever imagined would be seen in public, and her plain black shoes were now tapered into a thin platform at least four inches high—difficult to walk in at first, but undeniably stunning. Cassie—whose own newly shimmering gold dress was even more shockingly scant—had assured her that this was all typical wear for Muggle girls their age at night, but they seemed to attract a disorienting amount of attention all the same when they boarded the train, Cassie having Confunded the ticket operator. Men—_Muggle _men—blatantly stared.

Bellatrix could hardly process any of it—it was disgusting, of course…but it also brought a heady sense of control. She felt illicit, daring, _powerful_, as if she were wearing a devious disguise. Her fingers twitched toward where her wand was concealed, along with her dagger, in the satchel she still wore round her shoulder—she had the capacity to_hurt _them all with a flick of her wrist, Muggle attire or no. She gave one man—dark and roughly elegant in a way that reminded her of Rodolphus, watching her pass as he leaned against the wall of the train—a slow, seductive smile through half-lidded eyes. He choked, and Bella felt a thrill run through her.

Cassie wasn't watching, engrossed instead in a map of the Underground. "Two stops and we're off," she was murmuring, biting at her nails in an uncustomarily self-conscious way that made Bellatrix nervous.

The train lurched and rattled, nearly knocking them over—Bella grit her teeth, hissing, "Are you _quite _sure this is safe?"

Cassie glanced up, amused again. "I forget Gryffindor courage doesn't exactly run in your family. Your sister looks scared as you in Muggle London."

Bellatrix started. "My sister?"

"The fifth year? Snobbish as you, just with lighter hair?" Cassie shrugged, tossing the map aside. "I see her here sometimes, by my aunt's flat near Piccadilly. Thought she was you at first, from far away, but your tastes in men were a _bit _of a giveaway—that blond boy she's always with looks as much like Rodolphus Lestrange as I look like a Veela."

The train had come to a stop, and people were exiting, jostling them to the side. Bellatrix seized Cassie, pulling her away from the fray. "Are you mad, or just blind?" she demanded. "Andy would never—_none _of us has ever—_what boy_?"

"Hell if I know." Cassie rolled her eyes. "She loves him, though," she added suddenly, with a mischievous grin at Bella's stunned expression. "I can tell."

Bellatrix sputtered, reeling from this latest shock, but any reply she could have made was lost as the rattling of the train drowned out all other noise once more. Seconds later, it lurched to a halt again and Cassie's eyes lit up. "That'll be our stop, love." She leaped out the opening doors, and Bella braced herself, setting her jaw tightly before following.

The loud, wild chaos of the darkening Muggle city streets nearly swallowed her up again as they left the station, but Cassie moved through the sidewalk crowds with an easy, casual dexterity, leading Bellatrix into a side alley every bit as menacing as Knockturn and responding to the drunken catcalls and whistles from a group of men across the street with a quick, obscene gesture.

Bellatrix glanced back, chest constricted with renewed trepidation. "And _when_, exactly, are you going to say where you're taking me?"

"When we get there," said Cassie flippantly, peering intently at the nondescript, apparently deserted buildings along the side street, cast into shadow in the twilight. "Should be right…about…_now_." Another step and she was gone, the night having swept down upon her like an invisibility cloak.

Bellatrix shrank back in alarm. "_Dorcas_!"

"C'mon!" A nail-bitten hand reached out of thin air to pull Bella past an invisible barrier—for the briefest of seconds, cold air was pressing hard around her in a soundless void, stealing her breath and compressing her lungs, but then she was through, and the formerly empty alleyway was now alive with lights and music, all filtering out of a black metal doorway a few feet away that Bella was certain hadn't been there a moment before. A glittering sign to the left of the door read _EVANESCO. _People in similarly shiny, ridiculous clothes were lined up to enter, glancing around warily every few seconds, and an enormous, muscular blond man guarded the entrance, allowing some in and turning others away.

"It's cloaked," Cassie said by way of explanation. "Unplottable, too, for anyone but magic-users who already know where it is. Muggles can get in if they're…accompanied. Good thing we're not Muggles, mm?" She tossed Bella a crooked grin and threw out her arms in a grand gesture of exhilaration. "Welcome to Evanesco, London's shadiest underground magic nightclub—now affect cool, Trixie m'dear."

"Where do you think you're goin'?" growled the large blond man at the door, gesturing to the line they'd just bypassed entirely. Bella peered behind him into the club, but it was impossible to see—she could only hear the pounding, hypnotic music, trailing out from the dark interior to pulsate underneath her skin.

"Inside," said Cassie coolly. "It's _me_, Rowle—when've I needed a password?" She started to brush past, but his muscular arm shot out to stop her.

"Not so fast." He turned beady, distrustful eyes on Bellatrix. "Who's your friend?"

"This is Trixie…Trixie White," Cassie said brightly. Bella forced out a sarcastic smile as Dorcas leaned in to whisper loudly, "She's a _Muggle_."

"Hmm," said the huge blond man, sounding even more suspicious. "Never known you to bring one here before—"

"Now, Rowle..." A tall, soft-spoken young man dressed stylishly in the Muggle fashion, with a wide, easy smile and friendly brown eyes that crinkled upward at the edges, had come up behind the blond from inside. "You know any friend of Cas's is a friend of ours."

Cassie grinned. "Hullo, Caradoc."

He bowed with an easy grace. "Cas—welcome back. It's been far too long. Your hair looks terrible, you know."

"I know," she said cheerfully, blowing him a kiss and disappearing into the dark club with a final squeeze to Bella's hand. At a loss, Bellatrix started to follow, ignoring Rowle's glare, but the brown-eyed man—Caradoc, Cassie had called him—placed a light hand on her shoulder and guided her himself. "Have we met?" he asked over the music, looking her over quizzically. "You seem exceedingly familiar."

Bellatrix looked around in astonishment. This was like nowhere she had ever seen—not the Cauldron, or the Hog's Head, or even the most disreputable corners of Knockturn Alley. The atmosphere was upscale, certainly, in a sort of grungy, metal way, and the pulsating music almost unearthly, like nothing she had ever heard, but the _people_. All were dressed in the same fashionable Muggle styles, all were conventionally beautiful, but there was something…off. Some had a far-away, glazed look in their eyes, a permanent smile fixated on their features as they clung to a companion who appeared fully in command of his or her facilities. Every few moments the scene would _shift_ somehow, blur around the edges as if glamoured. Bella's eyes narrowed: Muggle London or no, the air was soaked in magic.

"Trixie?" said Caradoc, sounding concerned, and his warm, measured voice jolted Bellatrix back to her own companion.

"My sister," she blurted. He arched a brow. "You must have seen my sister. We look alike. She's…come here before." She swallowed with difficulty and assumed her customary imperious bearing, demanding, "Where is Dorcas?"

He gave a calm, soothing smile, and Bellatrix felt all tension ease melodiously out of her body. "Never mind Cas for now. Here—have a drink." He offered her a glass filled with a clear, crystalline liquid that seemed to have been conjured out of thin air, and she took it unthinkingly, mind feeling strangely fuzzy.

"And now," rang out an unfamiliar, sexless voice, magically amplified to fill the room, "The magicians of Evanesco present…" A crimson damask curtain in the centre of the room parted to reveal a grand stage upon which stood seven still, robed figures, lit up by glittering magical spheres of light. "…_real _magic."

A loud flash, and wands were drawn, spells were flying. The spellwork was simple, basic—a third-year could have done it—and yet half the room let out delighted, awe-struck gasps. A nearby couple kissed passionately, silhouetted against the wandlight.

Caradoc was watching her closely, so Bella plastered on a smile and pretended to take a sip of the drink—it was icy cold against her lips. He smiled, too, seeming pleased. "Do you like it?"

She feigned another sip as the figures onstage began a dizzying, levitational dance. "It's…interesting."

"_No!_" The glass was abruptly thrown out of her hand, shattering to the floor, and Cassie was at her side again, glaring at Caradoc. "Not her, she doesn't need it!"

Bellatrix had no time to witness his reaction—Cassie was pulling her away from the stage, ensuring both of them disappeared into the spellbound crowd. Bella's mind was clearing fast. "_What is happening?_"

Cassie gave her a frazzled sidelong glance. "He gives them the potion to dull their senses, Confund them a little, set the glamour into place—and it's laced with Veritaserum, from _her_, so good luck lying to him after that. This is his place, Caradoc's…don't be fooled by his mild-mannered ways; he's tricky, and too good at what he does. If the Ministry had any idea…" Bella glanced back at the stage—the robed figures had called up several eager volunteers—and Cassie followed her gaze. "He gives the Muggles what they want: to believe for just one night that they've entered a world where magic exists, neatly restrained and packaged for their consumption…to think they know a secret no one else in their world does." There was a trace of bitterness in her crooked smile. "And for just one night, they do."

Breaking the International Statute of Secrecy in the process. _How did he possibly get away with it? _"Wizards pretending to be Muggles pretending to be wizards," she said scornfully. "How original."

"They don't have to pretend," said Cassie. "Look around you, love…this place is a breeding ground for magi-Muggle matches, pun intended. Where d'you think half-bloods come from, anyway?" Not for the first time that night did Bellatrix feel as though she might be violently ill.

"How does he know you?" She watched Cassie's face carefully for any sort of revealing emotion, but her focused expression did not change.

"We're cousins," she said shortly, and laughed at Bella's raised brows. "We all have our unsavoury relations, eh, Trix?"

They had jostled their way out of the mesmerized crowd at last, and now Cassie pushed Bellatrix toward a secluded wall. She sputtered in indignation, but Cassie hissed quickly in her ear, "Whatever you're looking for, she'll have it. I'll be 'round back in fifteen minutes, find me, and don't let Caradoc see you again."

Bella shook her head. "Who—I don't—"

"Hurry!" Cassie shoved her hard, and Bellatrix stumbled backward in the high-heeled shoes into the wall, which swung inward immediately as a door, revealing swirls of smoke and an iridescent blue glow from within. Bella swallowed hard, suppressing pride or fear, and encircled a tight hand around Cassie's arm.

"Why are you doing this?" she hissed. "Helping me?"

Dorcas Meadowes gave a thin-lipped smile—was Bella imagining the flash of fear that flitted across her features? "You get what you give, love." One final push, and the door swung shut again on Cassie's face, still smiling that tight, enigmatic smile. Bellatrix staggered forward into the smoky, blue-lit room, internally cursing whoever originally invented secret passages and hidden chambers.

A low, croaking voice trailed out of the smoke as Bella peered warily into the darkness. "Step forward, girl, and discover all you seek." Amidst walls covered in bottles and cauldrons, Bellatrix could barely make out a hunched, wizened woman, seated at a circular wooden table and gazing into a crystal ball. Her face was shadowed by a gaudy velvet hood, but Bella could see sapphires glinting in the pools of her eyes, reflecting back the eerie blue light. A chill ran through her that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

"Come now, don't be afraid, dearie," the fortune-teller cackled. "It's only your future." _More Muggle-pleasing 'magic'._

"A shoddy make-believe Seer won't know what I seek," spat Bella, searching again for the door, ready to _kill _Dorcas—but the woman had straightened and stiffened at the sound of her voice, all theatricality vanished in an instant. "You seek Death." Bellatrix stopped, and the woman laughed shrilly. "Oh, I know Death, girl. We're old friends."

Bella hardly dared to hope. "The Drink of Despair," she said intently, voice taut with restrained excitement. "Do you have it?"

The Seer might have smiled. "Girls younger than you have come to me for Dark potions before—to kill an unwanted child in its mother's belly, or a cruel father in his sleep—but never so Dark as that."

"I'll pay well," Bellatrix snapped. "Name your price!"

"Foolish girl. You think I want your gold?" The blue smoke had thinned, darkened. "The price of Death is steeper than that."

Gruesome yellowed diagrams flashed into Bella's mind once more. "My blood, then." Grasping at the tendrils of her memory, and all its recently acquired knowledge, she quoted quickly, "_The blood is the life, and only life can pay for death_."

The Seer sat very still beneath her hood. "It's a rare girl indeed who can tell me the ways of blood magic."

Bellatrix reached into her satchel for the dagger and positioned it over her left palm. The edge of it grazed her skin, ready to open the veins beneath. "You'll find no more valuable blood than mine."

"Blood is blood," said the Seer dismissively. "Pureblood or Mudblood, they all bleed the same."

"Give me the potion," said Bella in a hard, steel voice. Her shaking hand slipped a little on the blade, drawing two dark red spots of blood that reminded her of the Dark Lord's eyes. The Seer chuckled, but said nothing, getting to her feet in laboured, lurching movements and removing the hood.

Her face was gaunt, aged skin stretched tight against skull, matching the small animal bones in her white hair, and her eyes shone bright crystalline blue.

"_You,_" hissed Bellatrix, removing the knife from her palm and pointing it instead at the Seer. She was unmistakably the same beggarwoman—had that been a disguise?—from months ago in Knockturn Alley, threatened once already by the very same blade.

"I warned you, dearie," said the Seer softly, a terrifying, toothless grin playing about dry, cracked lips. "Yet here you are, seeking Death at His bidding."

"I am here of my own accord," Bellatrix snarled, knuckles white against the knife's iron grip, and the madwoman let loose a cackling peal of laughter.

"Are you, my Black princess? _Are _you?" She reached out to trace the odd-shaped bottles lining the shelves on the wall, seeming troubled. "The Fates are clear. War is coming. The Dark rises, and the Light flares up to balance it."

"And which side are you on?" asked Bellatrix, eyes locked on a familiar small green vial hidden in the shadow of a larger potion that the Seer's wizened hand brushed by. "Dark or Light?

"I am neither," said the Seer. "I am the shadow that falls between."

Bellatrix looked up from the vial—_the same bottle, it had to be_—to find the old woman watching her sharply. Her sapphire eyes moved swiftly from Bella's face to the potions on the wall, and her cracked lips twisted into the first syllables of a spell—Bella moved fast. Reaching out with one hand to seize the potion—covered with a thick sheen of dust, but warm and familiar in her fingers—and rolling to the smoky floor to dodge the Seer's curse, she thrust the dagger upward with deadly precision, and the crone toppled with a shrieking cry, pinning Bellatrix to the ground as she fell.

The smell of blood soaked the air. Bella struggled to heave the woman off of her, grappling with the silver knife protruding from the Seer's chest. "You can't kill me, girl," she rasped, blood trickling out of her mouth as she sputtered, one wrinkled hand grasping for the vial, the other trying to turn Bella's face to meet her gaze—Bellatrix scratched at the blue crystal eyes with sharp nails, leaving bloody gashes down the Seer's gaunt cheeks, and the woman released her grip, screaming.

"I can," panted Bellatrix. It was true, she realized suddenly, breathing hard. Death was at her fingertips. She leapt to her feet, enlivened with a cold, searing purpose, _Viridis Despero _in hand. For the first time, the crone looked afraid, fear further clouding her newly blinded eyes. "I'm no thief, Seer," said Bella softly. "Death has its price."

When the dagger slit her neck, the woman's warm, wet blood spilled out to cover the bottled potion as Bellatrix poured a single drop between her lips, green intermingling with red. _Life for Death_, Bella thought madly, hysterical laughter clawing at her throat.

The haunting, pulsating music had stopped, she realized suddenly, and just as she thought it the door burst open, screams and chaos breaking loose from beyond.

"There you are!" Caradoc was shouting. He broke off abruptly at the sight of bloodied Bella kneeling over the Seer's lifeless corpse and gave a slight, horrified gasp, choking out, "_What in Merlin's name have you done?_"

In the next instant three wands were pointed at his heart, three masked men dressed all in black having come up behind him unawares.

"Not in Merlin's name, Dearborn," said one—it might have been any—in the same smooth, silky voice she remembered. "In Lord Voldemort's."

More Death Eaters had infiltrated the interior of the club, and its well-dressed patrons were running, screaming as spells went flying. Bellatrix quietly slipped the green vial into her satchel. "The body," shouted one of the Death Eaters binding Caradoc with an Incarcerous over the noise. "The Dark Lord insisted that we collect the body!"

"Grab her, then," commanded the first Death Eater, and Bella shrank back as the larger of the other two advanced—but it was only to seize the Seer's corpse. He Disapparated with it immediately, and she turned back to the remaining two still guarding Caradoc, who was staring at her with wide, accusatory eyes.

"And the girl?" asked the shorter of the two in a low voice.

"Allow me." The leader removed his silver mask with a familiar flourish. _Damien. _She should have known.

Her uncle gave a grim, satisfied smile. "Your first kill, darling? It does get less…messy." He held out a gloved hand toward Bellatrix. "I believe you have something for me."

"For _him_," she snarled, backing away—but from behind, Caradoc was struggling anew, freshly enlivened with disbelief and fury.

"Damien Rosier!"

He turned, mouth twisting slightly as if resisting laughter. "Caradoc Dearborn…we meet again. I assume you resent the circumstances."

"We had a deal, Rosier!"

"Did we?" Damien smiled his most winning—most _dangerous_—smile. "The finer points of it seem to have escaped me."

"Your secret for mine! We exchanged the potions—you swore protection—"

"And you've had it," snapped Damien, impatient now. "When in seven years did the Ministry come knocking on your door? The Department has turned a blind eye to what happens here—"

"Until now," hissed Caradoc.

Damien shook his head with exaggerated patience. "But Dearborn…dear, _dear _Dearborn…you know it's not the Ministry I'm here for tonight."

Caradoc's eyes narrowed in defiance, but a shade of fear darkened his features. He had the same slightly crooked nose as Dorcas, Bellatrix thought fleetingly, then started._Dorcas. _She was waiting outside, unawares—if Bella could manage to just…slip away, satchel in hand—

As if she'd heard her name in Bella's thoughts, Cassie had come sprinting around the corner before she could so much as shift balance, shoving a duelling pair aside, looking more harried and dishevelled than Bellatrix had ever seen her.

"Dorcas!" she screamed over the din, and the blue-haired girl whirled around, taking in the scene with a quick, sharp glance-over. Caradoc was shouting something, but the shorter Death Eater had already stepped forward to meet her, removing his mask.

"Well done, Miss Meadowes," said Theodore Nott, reaching out to pat her coolly on the shoulder. Bellatrix stared at Dorcas, stunned, but the other girl determinedly avoided her gaze. "You have performed as requested. Your aunt will remain in custody until we confirm the identity of the potion—"

Caradoc gave a sharp intake of breath. "Cas—no—they have Mum?"

Nott silenced him with a quick hex and turned back to Dorcas. "—but your grandmother…"

"She's dead, I'm afraid," interrupted Damien with a sly glance at Bella, still drenched in blood. "Couldn't be helped."

_Grandmother? _The hidden room was suddenly spinning very fast, the chaos in the club beyond threatening to burst through and overwhelm them all. _It was all a set-up_, Bellatrix realized. Dorcas had led her here on Nott's orders, under threat of her aunt's life and perhaps her own as well, all so that Bella could procure the Drink of Despair from the Seer Damien had traded it to years ago, and make possible a Death Eater attack in the process. The Muggles and Muggle-sympathizers being killed off as they spoke had to be in the dozens. And Bella herself…she had killed a woman. A powerful Seer. _Cassie's grandmother. _What other secrets was Dorcas Meadowes hiding? The blood staining her exposed skin had gone cold.

Another Death Eater was rushing toward them, the large blond man from the door—Rowle—at his side. "All dead—we must go—there'll be questions at the Ministry, Rosier—"

Damien adjusted his gloves. "Questions I am as always prepared to provide answers for, Lestrange." He eyed Dorcas and Caradoc thoughtfully, ignoring Bella's jolt at the name. "The fewer the better, however…no more 'deals', I should think."

Bellatrix suppressed a warning shout to Cassie as his hand inched toward his wand—_she was the enemy now, anyone not for the Dark Lord was the enemy_—but she was quicker than either of them, withdrawing her own in a flash and blasting the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement backward into the steel wall, where he fell, unmoving, to the floor. Darting around curses slung by Nott and Lestrange, she made to free Caradoc from his bonds, but Bella stepped forward, wielding her own weapon.

"Surrender your wand," she ordered, sounding as shrill and desperate as she felt. Cassie regarded her coolly, very still. "YOUR WAND!" Bellatrix shrieked again. She let loose a warning jinx, and Dorcas leaped backward, eyes narrowed.

"You owe me, Bellatrix Black." Her voice was quiet, deathly calm, and Bella had to strain to hear over the screams and spells in the background. "One favour, remember?" Rowle moved to restrain her, but she twisted away, flinging a savage hex that rebounded off the wall behind Bellatrix, forcing her to duck. "I'll be collecting!"

A hasty searing spell dissolved the ropes holding Caradoc as she sprinted toward the door, pausing only to give Damien—still Petrified on the ground—a well-aimed kick between the legs. "Sorry, _sir_," she called back over her shoulder, dodging Death Eater curses in a wild zig-zag pattern. "Couldn't be helped."

"After her!" commanded Leander Lestrange, but all the rest were quite wholly preoccupied. Caradoc had regained movement and possession of his wand and was now furiously duelling three Death Eaters at once. Rowle—who seemed to have been working with them all along—was setting the place on fire, flames bursting from his wand and igniting the stage, now littered with bodies, its sleek glamour disappeared like smoke. "Careful!" Nott shouted as a lick of fire nearly singed his robes. Caradoc was laughing as he cried inscrutably, "The Phoenix will rise!"

Bella stepped over to Damien, dragging him away from the quickening flames with effort. "I'm not a pawn in your schemes any longer, Uncle," she hissed, looking down into his frozen cornflower eyes. "_I'll_ be the one to take it to him." With no further words or seconds to spare, she turned and ran in the direction of where Dorcas had so narrowly escaped, kicking off the absurd heeled shoes and stepping barefoot over the hot, bloodied floor.

She could not cry out when it happened, too suddenly to scream—the onyx stones seared into her neck like physical manifestations of the fire all around her. She seized the necklace, choking for air, but the black gems had tightened around her throat and felt blistering-hot to her touch.

_To the Dark Lord, _she thought desperately, twisting in mid-air, but someone else was shouting: an unfamiliar, foreign word.

"MORSMORDRE!"

It was the last thing she heard as Evanesco disappeared in a blurred loss of consciousness and the world flashed green in the glow of an enormous Dark Mark shooting up the burning ceiling toward the sky.

* * *

_Bella. _His voice came twisting cool and serpentine around the coils of her mind, high and clear in darkness, a recurring chill ghosting across her skin. _Wake._

She woke.

The floor she was sprawled on was hard stone; the surrounding room pitch-black. Disoriented, Bellatrix climbed unsteadily to her feet. She appeared not to have Splinched herself, miraculously, but the silver dress was black with soot and blood and her throat was throbbing. Wincing, she reached up gingerly to touch the onyx necklace: the stones were chilled once more.

A cool, familiar voice emerged from the darkness as several long torches along the stone walls flared to life. "Be quicker, next time, and spare yourself the burns."

"My Lord!" Bellatrix had jumped, startled, and struggled to catch her breath as he materialized out of the shadows. His presence, as always, stole the air from her lungs. "You frightened me."

"I meant to," said Lord Voldemort with a faint, unsettling smile. Bella blinked rapidly as her eyes adjusted to the torchlight. Cold and sparse but for several eerie metal spikes and rusted silver chains hanging from the walls, the strange stone room resembled nothing so much as a dungeon.

"Where are we, my Lord?"

"The location is unimportant," he answered cryptically, unmoving.

"My satchel," she gasped, looking around with sudden panic. It was nowhere to be seen. "The Drink of Despair—it was there—I had it—"

The Dark Lord held up a familiar small green vial. "And I have it now." He inspected it clinically, tilting it to the light. "It appears you have given me what grown Death Eaters could not. Can you comprehend the power of this potion, Bella? Do you know what it contains?"

"Death," she said quietly.

He turned his blood-rimmed gaze on Bellatrix, who held it with a courage she did not feel. "Then you are a deliverer of Death now, in more ways than one." Bella's skin tingled where the Seer's blood had dried. "It is useless to my purposes without a very specific antidote, of course—and this is where Gibbon shall finally prove his own usefulness." His long fingers caressed the glass like a lover's touch on skin. "You have taken great liberties in your delivery, Bella. Eavesdropping. Blackmail. Trickery. If I had not sent my Death Eaters after you tonight, this vial may well have fallen into the wrong hands due to your recklessness and inexperience."

Bellatrix coloured. "I sought only to please you—to prove myself worthy."

His gaze had become far too penetrating. "Of what, one may wonder?"

_Of you. _The thought had risen unbidden to her mind. Unnerved, she pressed her lips together tightly. "It seemed another trial, my Lord. A new test to pass."

His expression was unreadable. "You hear what I desire you to hear, Bella, and you do what I desire you to do. Do not think for a moment that I would permit you to overhear a private conversation without purpose, or to initiate a mission without permission. It was intended for you to retrieve this potion. That you have succeeded so quickly, and with_such _success, is to your credit, to be sure—but failure was never an option."

"Then I'm not to be punished?" she ventured, heart pounding.

"On the contrary," said the Dark Lord, "you are to be rewarded. Lord Voldemort values initiative and nerve, in the right measure." With a flick of his wand, the bottle of _Viridis Despero _vanished into thin air. He stepped forward to the centre of the room, only metres away from where Bella still stood. "Prepare to duel."

Bellatrix hadn't known her eyes could go so wide. "_Duel_?"

"You are familiar with the concept, surely?"

"I—yes, my Lord, but—duel _you_? I can't possibly—"

"It seems your first lesson, Bella, is to be the difference between an order and a request," said Lord Voldemort, frighteningly calm. _I do not take kindly, Bella, to servants who cannot obey. _She swallowed, and he continued as if nothing had been said."I require an assessment of your abilities beyond the words of Damien Rosier…which are not, as I am sure you have gathered, always the most trustworthy. Begin."

She had no choice, then, but to accept impending injury and probable death at the hands of the most skilled practitioner of the Dark Arts the world had likely ever known. With a stiff, pained bow, Bellatrix raised her wand.

Dueling the Heir of Slytherin, at first, was hardly more challenging than training lessons with her father, or Dueling Club practice rounds—he engaged her in a quick parrying session of basic combat spells, which Bellatrix successfully deflected or shielded against with her customary agility and speed.

"Your tactical precision requires no improvement," observed the Dark Lord, shooting off a brutal non-verbal curse in the process—Bella hadn't heard him speak a spell once, and was attempting to follow his example, with varying degrees of success. "But you are holding back, restraining the raw power inside of you in favor of mundane schoolyard jinxes. Dark magic does not play safe, Bella." His eyes seemed to glow scarlet in the dark, and in the next instant Bellatrix was flying backwards like a doll into stone, hit with a violent, forceful blast of unblockable Dark energy. "It plays to win."

Bella struggled to her feet, tasting blood, but the Dark Lord was now nowhere to be found, having seemingly disappeared into thin air. Spinning around wildly, gripping her wand so tightly she feared it might break, she flipped through the weathered pages of _Curses and Counter-Curses _in her head, silencing all panicked thoughts and repeating the core fundamentals of Dark magic instead. _Forceful rather than focused. Deceptive rather than disciplined. Chaotic rather than controlled._

By the time she sensed his presence behind her again, she had already leapt aside, dodging a glowing snake incantation and turning back immediately to slash her wand left-right, shouting the first curse that came to mind, a word she had only ever read in an ancient Dark spellbook. "INTORQUIO!" The deadly purple blast of magic bursting from her wand sent her staggering backward with its strength, but Lord Voldemort deflected it with a careless wave of his wand-free hand.

"Better," allowed the Dark Lord. "But truly powerful magic is instinctive, not tied to the proper movements and incantations." He moved like a shadow himself, Apparating and Disapparating around the room too fast to see without so much as a whisper, leaving new illusions in his wake: all manner of terrors and demons leaped at Bella from the darkness, and beads of sweat shone on her brow as she flung herself out of the way of several quick, successive slicing spells. She was exhausted, barely managing to throw up defensive spell after defensive spell in time when another slight, wandless gesture knocked her to the ground once more, scrambling for her wand—but Lord Voldemort had gotten there first, kicking it aside and out of reach. "Allow yourself to unleash the fire within you. Rise up and meet it through the Dark."

Bellatrix closed her eyes, panting, and searched for the familiar surge in her veins—it was impossible to focus in her rising panic. All the spells and strategies she had ever known were no match for the Dark Lord even at his most restrained, and she feared the embers in her soul would incinerate her if she went too far.

Without warning, he hit her hard with a stinging blast of pale light that sent her twisting into the air and impaled her against one of the spikes in the wall, sharp metal protruding out of her stomach to trap her bloodily in place.

Bella screamed—and something great and terrible inside of her was set free in a dizzying rush of pain and pleasure so intense that for several long moments she could see nothing but glittering stars behind her eyes.

When she opened them she was free and on her feet again, bleeding and bruised but hyper-animated with a crazed, feverish energy, vibrating with a flood of adrenaline and nerve. She could feel it physically: the cold air warming and thickening around her, her veins igniting like a fiery map beneath her skin, her fingertips buzzing and leaving trails of magic in the air, released from all restraints. She had never felt anything like it—never felt more dangerous, never felt more _powerful._

Wand in hand once more, Bellatrix met the Dark Lord's eyes.

The spells that exploded out of her with dizzying force lit up the room and reverberated around it, an astonishing array of curses and enchantments she had never known she was capable of. Lord Voldemort stepped backwards on the defensive for the first time, throwing up a stunningly potent shield charm that still only just managed to stop Bella's attack. He was smiling—bloodshot eyes blazing; cold, waxen features alight with satisfaction.

Trembling, Bellatrix tightened her grip on her wand, quickly losing any last semblance of control as the stones themselves began to shake and the torches blew out in a violent, hissing sizzle.

_The fire_, she thought frantically—and everything went dark.

* * *

Amidst a cascade of satin pillows, with silk rubbing smooth against her skin, Bella sat up.

She was in perhaps the largest, most luxurious bed she had ever seen (a truly remarkable title, she reflected dispassionately): a magnificent four-poster canopy with heavy amethyst bed-coverings that looked as though they had never been used, located in the centre of an enormous circular room.

The Dark Lord was standing with his back to her several feet away, gazing out a large draped window that revealed the sun setting over a brilliant range of mountains. Sensing her movement, he turned.

"So she wakes once more."

Bellatrix blinked rapidly. Her limbs felt stiff with lack of use and there was a strange, bitter taste in her mouth. "Have I been asleep?" she heard herself ask, voice sounding rough and jagged to her ears.

"For two days," Lord Voldemort said coolly, moving to the room's only furnishing—a tall, cluttered bookshelf—and replacing a large volume on the shelf. "You went well beyond your physical limit…it takes a great deal of time to recover from uncontrolled use of such powerfully primal magic."

"Two days," Bella repeated disbelievingly. A sudden, panicked thought struck her. "The Family—they'll have noticed I'm gone—"

Lord Voldemort gave the slightest of smiles. "Damien has assured me this will not be an issue."

Thinking of her last encounter with her uncle, Bellatrix set her jaw nervously, but refrained from questioning further, distracted by more pressing matters. Looking down, she saw the tattered silver dress had been replaced with a silk dressing gown, and her eyes widened at the implications. Had the Dark Lord himself undressed her before setting her down to rest in this strange bed? It was impossible to imagine—and yet—she flushed, not daring to look at him.

"Is this…_your _bed, my Lord?" Her brow furrowed as she attempted to picture it, feeling vaguely blasphemous. Did he ever even _sleep_?

His soft laugh carried just a touch of irony. "Lord Voldemort is long past such banal human necessities, Bella." _Of course_. She doubted it would surprise her if he claimed to subsist solely on basilisk venom. He went on. "A faithful servant has graciously provided this residence for training and leisure purposes. You need not worry about dirtying the bedsheets…I imagine they have had fouler occupants." Bellatrix hadn't thought her cheeks could blush any more crimson.

The events of—two days ago, now?—came rushing back to her now in a whirl of blurred lights and flashing colours. That tangible sensation of raw magical _power_ was unforgettable—even now, she felt it stirring underneath her skin. Pressing a hand to her stomach, where a spike had stabbed her through so brutally, she gasped: it was entirely healed, not leaving even a scar, and never had her body felt more energized.

"My abilities," she said, raising her eyes. "Have they been…assessed?"

The Dark Lord considered her. "Your potential is clear. You have shown yourself capable of discarding rigid magical formulas and setting loose the chaos required to master the Dark Arts, with the proper stimulus…but you must learn to control and focus that energy without exhausting it. The spirit is willing, Bella, but the flesh…the flesh is weak."

Feeling suddenly very exposed, Bellatrix made to pull the covers up over the sheer dressing gown, but he spoke again, commanding, "Rise." With only the slightest moment of hesitation, Bella pushed the satin aside and stood, resisting the urge to cover herself. She was quite sure she had never been more flustered in her life.

"You were promised a reward," Lord Voldemort said quietly, stepping closer. Bella's heartbeat quickened as he encircled a cold hand around her arm. She tensed as he forced her closer, then turned—and without even a _crack_, they had Disapparated back to the stone chamber. It was lit up by torches once more, illuminating cracks in the walls and bloodstains on the floor…and in the far corner—hanging in chains—two rough, familiar men. Their mouths were open as if shouting, or screaming, but not a sound came out; they seemed to be under a powerful Silencing charm. One taller, one bearded, each sporting a crooked, recently-broken nose: the two Mudblood outlaws from the forest.

"A gift, Bella," the Dark Lord murmured in her ear. He had not released her on arrival, and she was breathing very shallowly, his touch burning straight through the silk and branding her skin. "See how they fear you now," he said. "They know you can hurt them, _kill_ them…and you shall."

Bellatrix looked excitedly at the men, glaring at her with hatred, revulsion—and something in her expression must have been frightening indeed, for they shrank back into their chains with something very close to panic on their features. _The Killing Curse. _Was it true? She had killed once before—twice if the flame-haired werewolf counted as human, but that would be absurd—using a knife. But was she truly capable of bringing Death through magical means, surfacing from a place deep within herself?

Lord Voldemort placed her wand in her hand and his own hand over it—she thrilled and throbbed at the sensation of his palm touching hers, his own infinitely more powerful magic mixing with her own. A whispered incantation, and the prisoners were twitching and contorted in silent screams. Bellatrix stared, astonished and engrossed. Each writhe sent a sharp, shooting tinge of pleasure up her spine.

"The Dark Arts," he said softly, releasing her wand-hand and moving instead to unclasp the fastener of her dressing gown, "are immersed in physical instinct…a continuum that unites body and mind. To allow yourself to be swallowed up by magic in all its wild darkness is an exquisite pleasure, Bella. It is to know ecstasy, but it is also…to die." With a measured release of the clasp, the thin silk crumpled to the ground, leaving Bellatrix undressed and bare before him, wearing only his onyx necklace.

Stunned, she stood frozen in his grip, her body quivering slightly in anticipation, waiting to be possessed, needing to be consumed, wanting _more_. With all layers of fabric and clothing stripped away from her, his presence so close by was suffocating: she felt at any moment he might devour her whole. She heard herself beg in a whisper, too far perched off the edge of frenzy to care. "_Please_…"

"Did you know, Bella," he said conversationally, icy hands trailing expertly all across her body and making her shudder in their wake, "that the root of the Old English word for sexual release is the same as that for Death?"

"No, my Lord," she gasped out, shivering in his grasp. He pinched a nipple roughly, making her jerk against him, savouring her vulnerability: he was playing her like a marionette, every touch igniting some new movement or moan. She was barely conscious of the prisoners now, still suffering their silent torture, or anything else in the world but _him_.

"_La petit mort, _it's called in French, and what is orgasm other than to be swallowed up in a blackness so deep that distinction, thought, and consciousness dissolve? So it is with our manipulation of magical energy, of the Dark matter making up our universe." His fingers found the slick, glistening wetness between her legs and moved with skilled surety. Bellatrix hissed softly, but clenched her teeth together, refusing to cry out. "To master Death…to _feed_ on Death…you must separate mind from body…spirit from soul."

"Another—another riddle, my Lord?" She struggled to remain still and standing as his fingers quickened in intensity, and he gave a cruel, amused smile. It did things to her body that she couldn't describe, that smile...she imagined all the thousands he could command with a flash of it, all the hundreds of thousands he had killed with the same fingers now driving her past all control.

"These men—" he covered her wand-hand with his own again, leaving one hand to continue its torment—"represent everyone who has ever made you feel weak or afraid, everyone who has ever tried to hurt you. Hurt them now, Bella. Use your passion, your anger, your _fire_." Her veins were hot and swollen, her skin sizzling against his ice, and the wand in her hand felt as though it might erupt or explode.

The words leapt fully-formed to the front of her pleasure-hazed mind as if he'd put them there: _Avada Kedavra_.

So simple.

So easy.

The pressure was building and she was dividing, colliding, coming apart.

"Feel it, Bella. _Feel me_," hissed Lord Voldemort, cool and sibilant in her ear. She was at the precipice now, and with one final twist he had pushed her over it—"_Die for me_," he ordered, and with a long, aching scream—a crushing, all-consuming wave of chaotic ecstasy—Bellatrix obeyed.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Another push: _again._

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

When the green flashes cleared, the bodies were limp in their chains and Bellatrix was on her knees—naked, spent, and panting, but profoundly exhilarated. _Death. _It was the most beautiful gift he could have given her. She had gone through fire and come out alive…more alive than ever before.

Above her, Lord Voldemort gazed down at his protégée, red eyes gleaming with cool, restrained triumph. "There is a word, Bella, that all my servants speak after a killing in my name. 'To take a bite out of Death', it means—as you have just done. Do you know it?"

Bellatrix remained kneeling. "Yes…" Raising her wand to the ceiling, she looked up at Him with a glittering, transcendent clarity. "…Master."

_Morsmordre._

She spoke it softly, caressing each syllable, and a Dark Mark slid out of her wand, shining greener than Death itself.

* * *

**AZKABAN – **1987

_Of all her delusions, all her demons, the worst wears a distorted likeness of His face, and He does not know her.  
Not anymore._

_Her memories are kept in an imaginary Pensieve, a cracked glass jar beneath her skull, and sometimes it shatters. Sharp corners and jagged edges scatter perilously throughout the ruined constellations of her mind, mirroring madness in a thousand broken pieces, and_ she remembers everything.

_Blood on the floor and hot, hot urges and fire running underneath her skin in blistering blue lines—_scream for me, die for me_, He said, and so she does, clawing at her bare throat and shrieking out His name, her name, the word: _Morsmordre_._

_When they arrive, she's on the ground, matted hair torn out in chunks, fingernails torn and bleeding against metal and stone, breathing shrill, shallow breaths, swallowed up and sobbing as the past blurs and the present chokes._

_They are merciful in their own way as they take from her—take it all—leaving her with nothing but a hollow emptiness that hurts more than anything, in the end. There is no undoing, here, no true forgetfulness, only that stark, barren Truth that comes with the total cessation of sound._

_And that's what keeps her awake at night, keeps her thrashing and whimpering in a void of sunken darkness: the silence. All those empty spaces in her mind and soul where words and screams and _He _should be._

Morsmordre_, someone whispers.  
If only she could remember what it means._


	7. The Death Club

**DARK**  
Chapter VII – "The Death Club"

* * *

**HOGWARTS – **September 1974

Very few people knew Hogwarts had a graveyard.

Hidden in the south end of the castle grounds, near the far reaches of the lake and the furthest outskirts of the forest, were perhaps two dozen crumbling tombstones. The names they bore were ancient and in some cases forgotten, relegated only to dusty, unopened ancestral tomes. No one had been buried there in over seven hundred years, but the original occupants remained—unfortunate students, perhaps, or legendary headmasters, all long ago rotted into dust.

Yes, very few people knew Hogwarts had a graveyard, but Bellatrix Black was fast becoming well-acquainted with things that very few people knew.

She spoke quietly into the dark stillness, glancing around at the half-dozen cloaked figures gathered around the graves, shadows in the moonlight. "Are we all here, then?"

Lorcan Wilkes cleared his throat nervously. "Evan can't make it, he's with—"

"I realize," snapped Bellatrix. "We'll make do, I'm sure."

Upon returning to Grimmauld Place at the completion of her summer lessons with the Dark Lord, Bella had made the unwelcome discovery that Evan and Andromeda were now a couple, much to the entire Family's bemused surprise. Andy had confessed everything—Evan was the mysterious blond boy she'd been spotted around London with, the writer of the mysterious love letters, the reason she'd been so mysteriously absent and distracted for months, each of them driven to secrecy by fear of outside disapproval. Far from disapproving, Druella had been thrilled at the news. Bellatrix, for her part, was torn—on one hand, it was a promising sign for Andy to yield so completely to Family traditions by courting a close Pureblooded cousin…on the other, the Rosier family's particular brand of political activism held greater risk and danger than Bella would ever want Andy to be exposed to. It was bad enough that Malfoy still had Cissy in his oily grasp—if Evan was to court Andy, she had insisted privately to her cousin, he would ensure she was likewise ignorant to their extracurricular activities entirely. If that meant Evan himself would miss a few covert nighttime gatherings, so be it.

"I hope you're all prepared for tomorrow night," Rodolphus spoke up commandingly, and Bellatrix shot him a grateful glance for the smooth segue of subject. "Who do we have?"

"Severus Snape and Walden Macnair," Mulciber responded immediately. Bella rolled her eyes, but said nothing—with Lucius graduated, it was important to collect his remaining cronies.

"The Carrow twins," yawned Avery, already bored with the proceedings. "Amycus and Alecto."

"Those vulgar half-bloods?" Bellatrix said indignantly. "They can hardly string two words together—"

"—but when those words are 'Avada' and 'Kedavra', they'll do," Rodolphus finished firmly, shooting her a warning glance. "It's not all generals and spymasters, Bella. Every campaign needs foot soldiers." She set her jaw as he ordered, "Go on."

"Gavin Goyle and Richard Crabbe," ventured Wilkes.

Mulciber snorted. "Does every campaign need mountain-sized imbeciles, too, Lestrange?"

Rodolphus gave a sardonic smile. "Every scrawny, snarky prat needs a bodyguard, don't you think? I'm bringing Rabastan," he went on, ignoring Mulciber's sneer. "My father says it's time."

Bellatrix shifted against a faded tombstone, uncomfortably aware of the others' expectant, waiting eyes. "It's different for me," she said irritably. "There are no Death Eaters in the Family—"

"Yet," Rodolphus corrected sharply, just as Wilkes sullenly interjected, "Nor in mine," to collective eye-rolling.

"What's it to you, Lestrange?" hissed Bellatrix, their faces very close, breath intermingling in the cool autumn air.

The others shifted and averted their gazes, looking impatient or uncomfortable in turn, but Bella paid them no mind as Rodolphus regarded her coolly. "We're a team, remember?" Bellatrix winced to hear her own words from early summer tossed back at her. "Teams make sacrifices. The Dark Lord wants us to bring him the best recruits we can, and you wouldn't want to disappoint the Dark Lord, would you, Bella?" She eyed him warily, and something volatile shifted behind his calm, collected exterior as he added quieter, for her ears alone, "Not you."

Disregarding _that_ for now, Bellatrix looked to the others for support. "Regulus is so young—"

"So are we," said Avery. "Only Vulcan and Rodolphus are already of age."

"I have my debut in November!" Bellatrix nearly shouted, then lowered her voice with a furtive glance up at the sleeping castle. "None of us are children."

Avery gave an elegant shrug. "Neither is Regulus."

"Would you like to invite your sister, then, Avery?" seethed Bellatrix. "I'm sure Alana has plenty to contribute—"

Avery went ashen, but Mulciber laid a calming hand on his best friend's shoulder, sighing to the rest of them in exasperation, "Look, no one's involved unless they want to be. This is a voluntary recruitment process, alright?" His hypnotic green eyes lit up a little in the moonlight as he added, "Not that I'm opposed to a little _persuasion _myself, but we have all year for that, don't we? No need to rush."

"A tragic day for us all when _Mulciber_'s the only one speaking sense," said Bella scornfully.

Mulciber gave a sarcastic half-bow. "It's a new year, Black, and times are changing."

"Not fast enough," Bellatrix murmured, fingers flickering up to trace the black stones at her neck and willing them to burn. Their touch alone was cooling—she was hot all the time now, blood seeming to constantly boil and bubble underneath her skin, that scorching surge in her veins heightened with any magical activity. Only His cold touch could calm her, and that knowledge kept her writhing naked behind silence-charmed bed curtains at night, imagining her fingers were His.

One final year of meaningless Hogwarts lessons—interspersed, of course, with Lessons of a far more compelling variety—before she could truly become His follower. Become_His_. The wizarding world was holding its breath, baring its neck for the executioner's axe, but first, there were preparations to be made. The final pieces of the puzzle. And then? _Checkmate._

Her magic already felt different, newly wrought in sharp, jagged edges that no amount of structured classroom spells could file down, and she had already caught several classmates staring at her with a strange, furtive expression that came perilously close to fear.

Bella could get used to fear.

"To beginnings," said Rodolphus, expression inscrutable as he charmed several glasses of butterbeer and raised his in a toast.

"To endings," Bellatrix countered with a cool half-smile.

Avery grimaced in distaste. "To the entirely unsubtle melodrama of meeting in a _graveyard._"

"It's _symbolic_—" started Bellatrix, but Mulciber cut her off, grinning.

"Better get used to death, Altair. I hear it's an acquired taste." He glanced back up at the castle with a smile. "Our fathers had their club at school, and now we'll have ours. To the Death Club," he pronounced dramatically, raising his glass to meet Rodolphus's.

Avery arched a sceptical brow. "'The Death Club?'" he repeated. "Yes, that's the very _height _of subtlety. It sounds like—"

"It sounds like a game," said Bellatrix, unable to contain a sharp smile of her own. "A game without rules."

"But then what will you break, Bella?" asked Rodolphus.

She raised her own glass with a teasing smirk. "Necks, darling. Necks and hearts."

"To the Death Club!" repeated Mulciber with grandiose finality, and the rest of them echoed this last toast. Bellatrix felt her lips curve into a real smile as she drank. She lived in a new world now, a world where she had the power to create more tombs. Men had been alive one second and dead the next—at her hand, at her whim. It was a different sort of world to inhabit than the safe one that the students sleeping in the castle still lived in. Why not laugh about murder? Why not joke about death? All the rules were unmoored, and breaking them no longer mattered.

The clinking of glass was magnified in the still, empty nighttime air, and the butterbeer felt like suspiciously like firewhiskey slinking down Bella's onyx-bound throat.

* * *

Once the morning bells signalling the start of the first day of classes rang and the castle began bustling about as usual—seemingly oblivious to the dramas and dangers of the outside world—it was disconcertingly easy to fall back into the patterns and routines of mundane Hogwarts life.

"Are you sick, Bella?" asked Andy as she joined her sister and Evan on their way to Defence Against the Dark Arts. "You look exhausted."

Bellatrix rubbed her eyes, wishing she'd remembered to apply potion to the under-eye circles darkening her hungover complexion, or to charm away the various other unpleasant effects of last night's graveyard celebrations after staggering out of bed thirty minutes prior. "I'm fine," she snapped. "Didn't sleep well, that's all." Andromeda still looked worried, so she rushed on, "Who do you imagine we'll have as the new Defence professor now that Gibbon…quit?"

Andromeda quirked a brow. "You must have slept a _lot_ if you missed the feast this morning. Dumbledore introduced him at breakfast—Edgar Bones."

"'Bones'," Bellatrix repeated. _Ha._ The universe certainly did have a twisted sense of humour.

"He's young," said Evan. "A researcher type. Doubt we'll get much practical theory out of him."

"Well, maybe not out of _him_," said Bella dryly. "Oh look, there's sixth-year Transfiguration, Andy, better be going."

Evan whispered something into Andy's ear and she giggled—giggled!—squeezing his hand and giving him a kiss on the cheek before disappearing into her classroom. Bellatrix rolled her eyes. They were so far insufferable as a couple, always sharing little secrets with each other that no one else could decipher or be included in, making Bella feel constantly on the outside of an ongoing private joke. When she'd complained about this to Narcissa, however, her youngest sister hadn't seemed to share her frustration. _Andy's never dated anyone before, Bella, and what she has with Evan is so new. You know how it is. _Bella—whose own stormyrelationship with Rodolphus was more likely to be coupled with bruises than kisses—did _not _know, and what's more, she did not care to. Cissy herself already spent far too much time holed up in the owlery sending off lengthy, perfume-scented letters or daydreaming out the windows with a blissful, far-off look in her eyes: Bellatrix was hopelessly surrounded by love-struck fools.

Her first impression of Professor Bones, upon taking her customary seat in the back of Defence class moments later, was that the new professor did _not _live up to the inherent morbidity of his name. He was Gibbon's opposite in every way—friendly where Gibbon was vindictive, good-looking where Gibbon was repulsive, professional where Gibbon was abrasive. This disparity in appearance and personality, it didn't take long to discover, was equally matched in political views. It seemed Dumbledore had replaced the Death Eater spy with a servant of his own. All the more important, then, for the Death Club to carry out the Dark Lord's will at Hogwarts in his place.

"Recent events have made studying defence against Dark magic more imperative than ever," Bones was saying. He was a stately man in his early thirties, wore bookish wide-rimmed glasses, and spoke in a level, serious voice. Half the girls in the class listened in rapt attention, clearly already enamoured. "The tension between proponents of the Dark Arts in the political sphere and those who seek to contain them has produced its share of violent terrorists, and I suspect even this classroom has not been spared from the effects of that terror." He glanced around at each of them in turn, lingering for a moment on the empty seat where Dorcas Meadowes once sat. Bellatrix looked down immediately, pretending to be engrossed in her notes.

Dorcas was a wanted criminal now, with the Ministry putting out a warrant for her arrest and offering a sizable reward for her capture, making her certifiably infamous to her former Hogwarts classmates. No one was quite sure what she had _done, _exactly, and the Ministry wanted posters were vague, describing her merely as a dangerous Dark witch suspected to be supplying Ministry secrets to terrorists (Bella supposed no one else was in a position to accuse Damien of projecting). The ongoing search, however, confirmed what Bellatrix suspected: Dorcas _had_ escaped that night, and she was still out there, somewhere. On the run.

"My father's entire family was killed this summer," spoke up Emmeline Vance, looking frazzled and drawn, her usual confidence and boisterousness sorely lacking. "They were Muggles, and they were killed. All of them."

Bella hid a small smile behind her book. Death Eater work, of course—the Dark Mark reportedly found above the residence proved that. Muggle killing sprees had been steadily increasing all summer on Lord Voldemort's orders, heightening the progression to Mudblood and even half-blood attacks.

"We're all quite sorry to hear that, Miss…?"

"Vance."

"Miss Vance. I'm even sorrier to say you are not alone in your loss. It appears no one, these days, is safe—which is why we must prepare to defend ourselves as best we can. I am of the mind that the best defence begins with knowing one's enemy, in a sense. Can anyone tell me what makes Dark magic different from the magic we learn here at Hogwarts?"

Still smirking, Bellatrix raised her hand.

"Yes," said Bones, "in the back. You are?"

"Bellatrix Black. Sir." Bones look momentarily taken aback at the name—no Slytherin shrewdness in this one—but composed himself immediately, nodding for her to go on. "Dark magic entails control of magical energy with the will, mind, emotions, and sometimes the body of the wizard performing it, in a physical state beyond the standard incantations of domesticated spells."

"An answer nearly word-for-word the textbook definition," nodded Bones. "Well memorized. But what does that _mean_, in layman's terms?"

Bella didn't bother, this time, to raise her hand. "It _means_, Professor, that you have to _mean _it."

A few murmurs from the class. Bones eyed her with a cool, assessing gaze, expression unreadable. "Yes. Yes you do. The Dark Arts," he continued, pushing up his glasses and looking away without further comment, "are intrinsically dangerous for two reasons. First, they are unpredictable in essence: you can't guarantee results by getting the pronunciation and the wandwork just right. Any of you can cast _Lumos _whether you're calm or happy or angry or terrified. To perform a Dark spell, however, you must generate the appropriate emotional state and power of will to make it work."

Bellatrix yawned loudly. It was absurd that _she_ should be sitting here, listening to one of Dumbledore's puppets tell her the most basic of basic fundamentals of Dark magic under the laughable pretence of defending herself against them. _If they only knew…I'm the one they'll be defending themselves against. I'm what they're afraid of._

"Second," Bones continued amidst the renewed flurry of quills on parchment (clearly this was new information to most of the class), "and perhaps more frightening, is that prolonged exposure to Dark magic has a deteriorating effect on human perception. Immersion in the Dark Arts has been known to lead to magic-induced dementia of sorts—starting with a hardening of the practitioner's capacity for empathy and other compassionate emotions, progressing to paranoia, and ending in full-blown insanity as the Dark wizard loses the ability to distinguish his distorted perceptions from reality."

"Why?" blurted Emmeline. Bellatrix eyed her peripherally—tears glistened in her eyes, but she no longer looked frazzled and frightened. She looked angry. "Why would anyone—_ever_—"

"Toy with the Dark Arts in the first place?" Bones finished calmly. "It is human nature to desire the forbidden, Miss Vance…and even the most powerful wizards are only human, in the end."

The bell shattered the classroom's brief, solemn moment of silence, and the students gathered their books. "In addition to your readings, please prepare one scroll on combative defence theory for tomorrow," called Professor Bones over renewed chatter. "And Miss Vance—stay after a moment, will you?"

Bella couldn't resist tossing the Gryffindor girl a mocking smile as she swept out of the classroom, Evan at her heels. "You shouldn't draw attention to yourself like that," he muttered, glancing around nervously to be sure no one would overhear. "Not unless you want to draw the attention of the Headmaster as well, and _no one _wants that."

Bellatrix sighed with exaggerated ruefulness. "You're right, of course. It's just that it's so much _fun_." She rolled her eyes at her cousin's desperate, pleading look. "_Alright_, Evan. No more speaking up in class."

He narrowed his gaze at her easy agreement. "What in Salazar's name did the Lestranges do to you this summer, Bella? I don't think I've seen you this complacent all my life."

At a loss for an immediate reply, she gaped at him, but he was already off toward the dungeons for free period, shaking his head. With a sharp snort, Bella turned away. The Dark Lord's alibi for her—conveyed to the Family by Damien and reluctantly accepted by her parents with the help of a few skilled Confundus charms—involved a prolonged resumed stay at the Lestrange estate. So far as Evan and the others were aware, she really had been imposing on the Lestranges' hospitality the last three weeks of summer, rather than holed up in a mysterious mansion in the mountains with her oft-absent new mentor…only the Lestranges themselves were in on the charade. Though Rodolphus hadn't voiced any complaints with his role, there was a new, fraught tension between them, layered with implications that Bellatrix was not keen to examine.

As if summoned out of her thoughts, he was strolling toward her now, tossing his books to Wilkes to return to the common room. Before Bella could even say hello, he had pressed her up against the wall with a hard kiss, biting her lower lip until she gasped.

"You taste like something died," he grimaced, pulling away and wiping her blood from his mouth. "Rough morning?"

Bellatrix gave him an indignant shove. "No thanks to you, you unbearable git. Wasn't planning on getting smashed the night before the first day of classes."

Rodolphus snaked a hand up her skirt, ignoring the eyes of any passersby and Bella's fruitless attempts to push him away. "Live on the edge a little, love—or wasn't that one of your _lessons_?"

"I don't think," hissed Bellatrix in his ear, "our Lord would like your tone."

"No?" Rodolphus gave a harsh growl of a laugh as his hand found her undergarments and pulled. "How would he like this, do you think? Or this?" He reached up to roughly knead her breasts—Bella winced.

"Mr. Lestrange!" It was the stern voice of Professor McGonagall, peering at them with raised eyebrows beneath her glasses. "Kindly take your pawing at Miss Black's robes to a more private location, if you must persist at all."

Breathing hard, Bellatrix adjusted her uniform without meeting McGonagall's eyes, and Rodolphus stepped back, hands raised in mocking surrender. "Gladly, Professor."

McGonagall's gaze was far too sharp. "Are you alright, Miss Black? You look…unwell."

The genuine concern in her voice was grating. "I'm not," Bellatrix said shortly, summoning the nastiest look she could manage under the circumstances. _Not unwell, or not alright?_ She wasn't entirely sure.

Professor McGonagall pressed her lips together tightly. "I'll take your word for that," she said dryly, still staring pointedly until Rodolphus and Bellatrix set off down the corridor, hands to themselves.

Neither of them said a word all the way to the dungeons, not until Rodolphus hissed the password at the entrance. Bella made to enter, but he blocked her path.

"I haven't asked what happened this summer because I don't want to know," he said with a low, startling intensity, dark blue eyes flashing. "But there's one thing I do know, Bella: he doesn't want you the way I want you. And if we're together in this—if we're _together_—you can lie to everyone else but you can't lie to me_._"

Bellatrix met his eyes, mind and heart racing. _Doesn't want me? Are you so sure of that? _That first night in the mountains was on the tip of her tongue—she could imagine his face when she told him, cruelly, brutally, aiming to hurt. _You don't want to know? I don't care._

But she herself hadn't even begun to consider the insinuations and complications of that night—that single, transcendent night. The Dark Lord had made no mention of it in their slightly more traditional lessons following, and He had not repeated or escalated those touches. Bellatrix might have thought it was a dream, if it weren't for the immutable physical evidence of the limp bodies and that searing vision of her Mark in the sky. As it was, she relegated the memory to the realm of the sacred, unwilling to admit even in the most unconscious recesses of her soul how desperately she desired to experience it again. Speaking it aloud, even to Rodolphus, even to wound, would ruin it in ways she was unsure how to describe.

Her fingernails rubbed absent-mindedly against her left forearm. Circling. Scratching. Tracing smooth, bare skin.

Rodolphus seemed to take her silence as assent. Satisfied, he turned to walk inside the common room himself, when Bella spoke, slowly and deliberately.

"I'm not yours, Rodolphus." He stopped, but did not turn around. "We're _His_ now. Both of us. And if we're _together_…you're going to have to accept that."

He was very still. Bella stepped forward, leaned closer. "There's no time for distractions. I need to know that you're in, no matter what."

"You know I am," said Rodolphus, lips barely moving. "But not for my father, and never for _him_, Bella." She eyed him searchingly, and he set his jaw. "For you."

She stood immobile, uncertain what to say, but Rodolphus brushed past her without another word, leaving Bella alone in an empty dungeon corridor.

She scratched at her arm until it bled.

* * *

The common room, that night, was emptied by eleven.

The rest of House Slytherin accepted news of Rodolphus and his gang throwing a small, invite-only back-to-school 'party' after hours with equal parts envious resentment and blasé indifference, but this particular group of seventh-years had more than enough clout within the House to ensure they would not be disturbed.

Rodolphus and Wilkes had just sealed the anti-eavesdropping jinxes, and Evan (who had extended an 'invitation' to Andy with the knowledge that she would predictably decline, generally uninterested as she was, these days, in associating with Bella's friends) nervously tapped the emerald brocade of the armchair Mulciber was leisurely draped over. "What if no one comes?"

"They'll come," Bella said immediately, eyes flitting back and forth between the dormitory entrances as she paced the length of the common room. As if on cue, the doors opened, and robed figures began to trickle down the stairs.

Some were more eager than others: the half-blooded Carrow twins quickly helped themselves to front-row seats by the fire, and Rabastan Lestrange pushed past them to stand by his brother, looking scrawny and ugly in comparison—Walden Macnair, in contrast, hung back, arms crossed, and Crabbe and Goyle lingered menacingly in the shadows behind him. Henry Jugson—Heir to a large nouveau-riche fortune and Evan's _real_ invite—declined an armchair for a seat at the table, eyeing them all warily.

"Is this everyone?" muttered Avery. Bella heard his meaning: seven recruits was a start, but it was a small one indeed. _We'll be less picky when we can afford to be_, she thought irritably. _Trust isn't cheap._

"Not quite."

They all turned in time to see the main common room entrance swing shut, revealing a skinny, lank-haired boy dressed all in black and carrying his sixth-year Potions book as if it were a priceless magical artifact: Severus Snape.

Bella scrutinized him beneath hooded eyes as he unceremoniously took a seat, not noticing or perhaps not caring for the stir caused by his entrance. She supposed she ought to like him on principle, long well-aware of _Sirius's_ vicious loathing of the boy, but his distasteful appearance and total lack of redeemable charms resisted any sort of grudging affection…and another part of her, a selfish, anxious part she must take great care to hide, was less than enthused by his particular skills and talents, which were universally praised as exceptionally advanced. There was only room in the Dark Lord's company for one Dark Arts prodigy, and no overly ambitious sixth-year crony of Lucius Malfoy's was going to challenge her for the role.

"Thrilled you could join us, Snape," she said aloud, inserting just the right amount of venom underneath the honeyed sweetness of her tone. He nodded—slack, sallow face betraying no emotion—and Bella smiled, looking around at each of them in turn. "You may be wondering why we've invited you to join us here tonight. All of you have been personally selected to join the ranks of the elite and the extraordinary."

"It goes without saying," Mulciber cut in with a smirk, "that nothing you might hear tonight bears repeating in less..._elite _company." The others exchanged looks. "And in case you were wondering," he added, suddenly intensely interested in the woodwork on his wand, "that was very much a threat."

Walden Macnair shifted where he stood, flexing through his robes. "Don't care for threats, Mulciber. I'm a lot more interested in promises."

"Then here's what we're promising: power," Bellatrix said simply.

Macnair looked her over, mouth curling into a contemptuous sneer. "And what would a _girl, _even a _Black _girl_, _know of that?"

Rodolphus tensed behind her, but Bellatrix stepped forward until she was standing directly in front of Macnair, his huge, muscled form towering over her completely. The crackling hiss of the fire was almost deafening in the sudden silence.

Then, without word or warning, a brief explosion of energy and light, and suddenly Macnair was on the ground, convulsing in what appeared to be agony, ripping at his robes until they tore and revealed the horror underneath: the skin of his torso translucent and hollowed to expose his muscles writhing, constricting the nerves and contorting in tight, controlled spasms.

Bellatrix blinked—her only movement—and the torture ended, leaving Macnair sore and groaning at her feet. "I know that power isn't brawn, Macnair." She allowed herself a small smile as her blood settled into stillness again after that too-short surge in her veins. "And a whole lot more than that."

The others were gazing at her in shock—even Rodolphus looked taken aback. Macnair attempted to struggle to his feet, but stumbled, and Crabbe and Goyle helped on either side of him. He glared at Bellatrix with what might have been fear, or grudging respect—either way, he may hate her, but he would not cross her again.

"Where did you learn that?"

It was Severus Snape, black eyes wide, voice constricted with a fierce, desperate hunger that Bella knew all too well. "I've never seen anything like—_what was that spell_? Not…the Cruciatus…"

Bella laughed darkly. _If only_. The Killing Curse, thus far, was the only Unforgivable she had been allowed to perform. "No," she said lightly. "This one's a bit more…forgivable." She gave a mysterious smile, returning to her place by the fire. "There are more where that came from. And it's not _where _I learned it, Snape…it's who taught it to me." She paused significantly, and Avery stole the moment.

"We are a political movement," he said quietly, smooth and soothing. "You all must know how respected my father is—how respected _all _of our fathers are." Bella tightened._The Black Family most respected of all_... Avery continued, still in his elegant politician's voice, "You know what we stand for. Purity. Justice. Honour. Violence is only a necessary means to an end, not the goal in itself." Bellatrix studied his dark features. _Do you really still believe that, Avery? Did you ever? Or are you trying to convince yourself?_

"Who leads it?" Severus Snape's black eyes were intently focused on Avery's face. He was clearly hanging on every word.

"I beg your pardon?" said Avery, looking over at Snape with thinly-veiled annoyance and disdain.

"If this is a 'political movement'," repeated Snape with a slight sneer, "who leads it?"

A tentative silence. Rodolphus raised his eyebrows as Bellatrix exchanged looks with the others, unsure whether—"I think we can guess," Jugson said hesitantly when none of the seventh-years immediately answered. "After all those disappearances last year…the deaths in the Ministry…gossip in the papers…well, there've been whispers."

"Whispers?" said Mulciber with a wide, vicious grin. "They've been louder than that. _Screams_, maybe."

"Cut the trollshit," snarled Macnair, pale and ashen in his chair. "We all know this is about Lord Voldemort."

Bellatrix arched a brow. "He is the Dark Lord." She didn't miss Mulciber's tiniest of flinches at her voice…it was all she could do not to smile. "We do not speak His name."

"Yeah?" spoke up Amycus Carrow, ignoring his twin sister's warning pinch. "Rumour 'as it that'd be 'cause this _Dark Lord_ don't have one." He shrugged, muttering, "Least not one 'e wants the rest of us t'know."

A faded photograph of a pale, dark-eyed boy in a Slytherin uniform appeared unbidden in Bella's mind. _Riddle. _Tom Riddle. She wondered not for the first time if she would ever hear His story. "That would _be_ because He is the Heir of Slytherin," she said aloud, calm and assured in fact, revelling in their gasps and stunned expressions.

"It's true," said Evan at a nudge from Mulciber, unceremoniously uncovering the glass vial of basilisk venom and holding it to the light. Bella rolled her eyes. Unlike his father, Evan had absolutely no sense of theatricality. "He gave us this, and we've seen what he can do." He summarized, briefly, last Walpurgis Night. By the end of the tale, the students before them were awed, riveted, transformed with incredulous excitement. Pure-blooded or not, no Slytherin was unaware of what it meant.

"What does he look like?" asked Jugson in a hushed tone. "The whole world wonders..."

Bella thought of His ink-black hair, the sculpted, waxen features, that scythe-like smile, those searing bloodshot eyes flashing full-red in the dark.

It was Rodolphus, in the end, who answered. "Half-human."

The others looked at each other, unsettled and perversely intrigued. Alecto Carrow swallowed. "An' the other half…?"

"Devil," said Rodolphus. His eyes found Bella's, gaze hard. "Or god, if you prefer."

"Both are immortal," said Severus Snape, "and so is he…or so it sounds..."

"Lord of Death," said Mulciber in hallowed tones. "And we are his Death Club."

"This is a youth revolution," added Bellatrix, keenly aware of all eyes on her, frozen in rapt attention. "He believes in us, and He wants to meet every last one of you. To…assess your abilities." She gave a small, private smile. "Our first weekly meeting is next week, during the Hogsmeade trip. If you plan to be there…swear it now."

She held up an empty vial with her silver knife and with one swift motion sliced open a fingertip, draining the wound into the glass. With only the slightest apprehension, the others followed suit, every last one, and she sealed it with a drop of the basilisk venom and a quick, whispered incantation.

She flashed another triumphant smile, demonic in the fading glare of the flames. "How's that for a promise?"

"The thing about promises," Rodolphus hissed later in her ear, long after the others had dispersed back into the dormitories, murmuring among themselves, and they were the only ones left in the darkened common room, "is that they tend to have a price."


	8. Amortentia

**DARK**  
Chapter VIII – "Amortentia"

* * *

**HOGWARTS – **October 1974

The rest of the school knew something very strange was happening in Slytherin.

The exclusive, snobbish little group of seventh-years once led by Rodolphus Lestrange was growing in size, and it seemed to onlookers that Bellatrix Black was now at the head of it. They all hardly talked to anyone else now, and stayed locked up in far corners of the library for long hours, or awake late at night in the common room, protected by eavesdropping spells. Their other activities—Quidditch, schoolwork, dating, participation in the Slug Club—all seemed to have been put aside or somehow greatly decreased in importance. They were all of them possessed with a feverish sort of energy, of anticipation, of the greatest sort of secret, and they mysteriously were nowhere to be found during every Hogsmeade trip, only to return to Hogwarts hours later looking as though they'd just been through a war.

It was all very peculiar, very puzzling, and no one could understand it. Any attempts by fellow Slytherins to become part of the group were almost immediately parried, though it seemed that occasionally a fellow housemate could be invited in. Similarly, any attempts by outsiders to penetrate its secrets were almost always discovered and quite strongly…discouraged. People were fast beginning to fear them, these strange, isolated, superior-seeming Slytherins, and rumour had it that they were all suddenly quite well-versed in the very worst sorts of magic.

For a very short while, a prying Ravenclaw fifth-year called Rita was heard to be telling anyone who would listen all about the 'true story' of what the Slytherins were up to. 'The Death Club', she called it, saying that they were meeting someone in Hogsmeade, someone who was in charge, someone who was planning something…something big. But before this new information really had a chance to take off around the school rumour mill, Rita suddenly and inexplicably changed her story, claiming to have misspoke, to have made the whole thing up, or to have absolutely no idea what the questioner was referring to. It was suspicious, of course, but no one could prove anything at all and once again that unsettling group of Slytherins was left entirely alone.

And behind the closed doors of the Slytherin girls' bathroom, standing very still in front of a large glassy mirror, Bellatrix Black unbuttoned her uniform blouse with the tactile precision of a chessmaster. It fell crumpled to the bathroom floor, joining her skirt and stockings and leaving only a necklace of large dark stones.

She considered her naked reflection with calm, dispassionate appraisal: the scars at her hip had nearly faded now, but never completely, for _Dark magic never fully heals_. The scabbing wounds at her inner thighs were taking longer, but not quite so long as the burn marks on her breasts, and fortunately bruises were another thing entirely: the great masses of purple and yellow marring the skin of her back and torso would soon be disappeared, leaving a new expanse of pale unblemished flesh with which to work on. She supposed she could Heal them now, hurry the process a little, but she rather liked the way they blended and blurred, resembling nothing so much as an artist's canvas.

Turning to place both hands firmly on either side of the dormitory bathtub, Bellatrix sank gingerly into the water—too warm. Scalding. She hissed softly, closed her eyes…autumn melted into summer, and she was in the mountains again. _With Him._

_"Feel the fear, Bella."_

_She looked up at Him through a haze of sweat and tears, prostrate on the ground, wand shaking hard between bloodied fingers. They had been at it for hours now, but He was insatiable—at His command, she would stay here until her throat was hoarse and her skin was on fire, until the light in the windows had softened and changed color and then sunk away completely, until she had wasted away into a stiff, disintegrating corpse._

_"Locate it on your body," came the sibilant whisper. _Again. Again. _"Seize it in your spine, find the rush of adrenaline, let it wash over you. Pull more, push harder. Control it. Build it. And then…direct it."_

_Trembling, Bellatrix tore her eyes away from His and concentrated her gaze on the furious, wounded creature circling them in the centre of the stone chamber._

_Its body was that of a naked young woman who must have once been very beautiful—the porcelain skin was twisted and scarred from days of torture, bearing Dark marks that would never heal. From its back sprouted two long, scaled wings, and its face was a sharp-beaked bird that fascinated her and made her feel sick all at once. Two days ago, Bellatrix had never seen a Veela. By now, she was quite intimately acquainted._

_The Dark Lord referred to it only as 'the creature', and she had yet to see it in its human form. He kept it silenced and chained to the wall until He required a subject for Bella's training, at which point He would release it and allow it free reign to attack. It never went for Him, strangely—perhaps He had Charmed it—but struck out at Bellatrix, again and again. _Again.

_It flew toward her now with renewed fury, shooting out balls of fire from its clawed hands, and Bella covered her face against the ravages of its beak, choking back a scream. The Veela was screeching and Bella's fear pounded in time with her heart rate: bite scratch tear suck cut rip. There was an overwhelming stench of burnt skin and fresh blood, but Bellatrix was no longer present in the room: she was spirit, not flesh, and it was with a detached, almost clinical sense of precision that she picked up the wand again and directed it at the creature attacking her._

_Its angry screeches sounded nothing like the sound it made now: pained, agonized, pleading screams. It was writhing, tearing at its shredded, ripping skin to gouts of blood, bones breaking and escaping from the inside out, and Bella was screaming, too—not in pain, but pleasure._

_Then it was over, and the bloody mess of a young woman's remains lay still on the stones as Bella climbed shakily to her feet, panting. Its human face was pale, pretty, blonde, and fragile in a way that reminded her uncomfortably of Narcissa—but she pushed the thought aside, feeling only the overwhelming sense of victory pulsing through her veins, and the sharp thrill between her legs at those screams._

_"Transmogrifian Torture," the Dark Lord said coolly, at her side once more. "Shockingly competent for a first round, though it does leave such a mess." He was looking impassively at the bloodstains and gore littering the stone floor, indifferent to the corpse, and Bella wondered not for the first time what sort of man was entirely unaffected by the body of a naked Veela. _The sort that's not a man at all. _"Perhaps," He continued, the ghost of a smile on His lips, "the Conjuctivitis Curse would have been more fitting."_

_"I—I think I prefer torture," panted Bella, and He laughed—a cold, high laugh that reverberated loudly around the dungeon._

_"Yes, I thought you might."_

_Her green dress—one of many she'd found waiting in a wardrobe in one of the spare rooms, perfectly her size, as if it had been made for her precisely—was destroyed now, ripped and stained with sweat and blood. The blood had blurred to purple in the fabric: darkened emeralds and ruined rubies._

_"Sometimes I think my whole life is drawn in reds and greens," said Bellatrix unthinkingly. Her own voice sounded faint and faded to her ear._

_The Dark Lord seized her by the chin, forcing her face up to look at Him. Blood rushed to the surface at His touch—singing, singeing. "Then I shall remake you, Bella...discarding all the reds and greens and leaving only black."_

"Bella?"

Her eyes snapped open—fast, but not fast enough.

"Bella, other people need to bathe—BELLA!"

Andy had entered the bathroom without knocking—the lock, of all things, how could she have forgotten the lock—and Bellatrix had been too slow to cover herself: her sister was staring open-mouthed at the wounds and bruises.

"Get out," hissed Bella, leaping out of the tub and seizing fresh robes, shoving Andy away as she rushed to her and sending her sister slipping and stumbling to the floor. She was still for a moment, panting, wide-eyed at her own strength, then reached down to pull a horrified Andromeda up and lead her to the door.

"Who did that to you, Bella?" Andy was demanding, struggling. "WHO!"

"I'm perfectly fine," snapped Bellatrix, hastily shrugging on her robes. "Just a little—accident—" Would she have to Obliviate her own sister? Surely not…She sighed, all strength and energy swiftly sweeping away into renewed exhaustion. Her head was throbbing and her whole body ached. "Just forget it, Andy. _Leave_."

"It was Lestrange, wasn't it, of _course _it was Lestrange—he won't get away with this—" In the next instant she had broken away and was storming out toward the boys' dormitories. Bella rolled her eyes.

"For Salazar's sake, Andy, calm down!"

She rushed after her, but it was too late—Bellatrix wrenched open the door to Rodolphus's room (his roommates, thankfully, appeared to be elsewhere) just in time to see Andromeda punch him square in the face.

He staggered backward, nose covered in blood. "What the _bloody _hell!"

"That's for hurting my sister!" shouted Andy, reeling back to hit him again. "And _this_—"

"Andy, _stop_!" exclaimed Bellatrix, grabbing her fists and physically wrenching her back. Andromeda was shaking, livid, and something warm and familiar broke through Bella's numbed, pained exhaustion. _I would do the same for her, _she thought tiredly, but truly—_I would do worse._

Rodolphus was staring, bewildered and bleeding, looking wary at the prospect of _two _angry, unhinged Black sisters to contend with. "He didn't do it," Bella said flatly to Andy, truth lending weight to her words. "I did it to myself."

Andromeda stopped struggling and turned, looking back and forth between Rodolphus and Bellatrix with a blank, frozen expression that melted slowly into renewed horror. "That's sick, Bella," she said softly, backing toward the door. "_You're _sick. You need help."

"Andy—" Bellatrix reached toward her, seizing her arm, but Andromeda twisted away as if burned.

The door slammed shut behind her, and Bella gave a heavy sigh.

"What did you do?" Rodolphus's voice, low and measured, masked the restrained intensity underneath. Bellatrix turned.

"You know I've been training," she said quietly, meeting his eyes in defiance. She didn't have to explain herself—not to him. "We all have."

"Not like you," said Rodolphus, no longer bothering to stop the blood dripping down his face and onto his neck as he stepped toward her. "The rest of us don't train like you do." He was very close now. "Do we?"

Bellatrix's lips curved upward. With a quick, decisive movement, she let the robe fall.

The black of Rodolphus' robes stood in stark contrast to Bella's bare, discoloured flesh. He eyed her hungrily, sharp eyes taking in every cut and bruise. "No, I didn't think we did."

He ran a warm hand over one breast, tracing the remnants of half a dozen spells. "So this is why you haven't let me touch you, all these weeks." He gave a sharp smile. "Did you think I'd disapprove?"

"Of practicing Dark curses on myself? Perhaps slightly." Bellatrix stepped even closer, pressing sorely against his own still-clothed skin, feeling with an aching thrill the quickening race of his heartbeat and the hardening bulge between his legs. "Do you think I'm _sick_, Lestrange?"

Blue eyes lit up like fire, he ran a hand through her still-wet hair and pulled, making her gasp delightedly. "I think you're _mad_, and terrifying, and beautiful."

Grinning, Bellatrix gave a hard push, and he fell backward onto his canopied bed, where she clawed viciously at his robes until he was as stripped as she was. "No secrets between us, Bella," said Rodolphus, inhaling sharply. "We're beyond secrets."

_Are we? _Bella thought with a dark smile. "We'll always have secrets," she said aloud, flicking out her tongue against the scar at Rodolphus's throat, "together or apart."

"I prefer together," said Rodolphus, rolling her over onto her back and positioning himself between her legs. "Bellatrix Black," he said reverently, looking down at her with something akin to veneration, "will you marry me?"

She let out something half-way between a laugh and a moan as he entered her. "This is your idea of a proposal, Lestrange?" she gasped out between rough, violent thrusts. "Cissy would be appalled."

"Excellent, then, that I'm not proposing to _Cissy_. Let's leave that to Lucius, mm?

"I hate you," she hissed, raking her nails down his back with particular viciousness. "Nearly as much as I hate Malfoy."

"You flatter." He thrust harder, and Bella bit her lip to keep from crying out. "Marry me," he said again. _Again. Again._ As his fingers closed tight around the Dark Lord's necklace, pulling, choking, Bella's eyes went wide as much with shock as lack of breath: _he meant it._

"Marry me," said Rodolphus through grimaces and groans, "and we'll tear the world apart. Charm—kill—dance—duel—_together._" A final arching gasp, and Bella clung to him as he shuddered, pulling at the necklace so hard she feared the stones might break.

When he had collapsed next to her and the stars cleared behind her eyes, Bellatrix fingered her throbbing throat and pulled him close again to whisper _no_.

* * *

"Meeting tonight," Bellatrix leaned over to whisper to Altair Avery at the start of Potions the next day. "In the cave."

He stiffened, shuffling his scrolls. "I suppose you need me for scrying."

"Brilliant deduction."

Avery rubbed his temple tiredly. "I hate it, Black. You know I hate it. The things I have to see…I don't know how much longer…"

"Shhh!" she hissed as Slughorn moved to the front of the class, and her Potions partner fell silent, looking miserable.

They were studying love potions this week, and today Slughorn had brewed a small cauldron of Amortentia, the most powerful of them all, bringing it around for each table to have a sniff. Trivial. Superficial. Pointless. Bella wondered fleetingly why love potions weren't considered Dark—at their core, after all, they were all about subjugating the will of another. The upper echelons of Pureblood society sometimes used them in arranged marriages, but that was the only instance she could remember hearing of them being used consensually.

Lost in thought, she was caught off-guard when the cauldron appeared right underneath her nose, and she took a surprised inhalation of the most intoxicating combination of scents she could ever imagine.

_Blood; fire and ashes; the cool, musky skin of a snake; a cold sweep of His robes._

Gasping, she stood up so quickly that her flailing arms knocked into Slughorn and toppled the cauldron to the ground.

"Miss Black!" He stared at her, wide-eyed. She swayed on the spot, feeling light-headed. The scent was everywhere now, rising from where the potion had spilled pearly-white on the floor and permeating the air.

"Do you smell that?" she asked wildly, spinning around. No one moved, shocked into silence. Her shrill, desperate voice rang loud, on the verge of tears. "I know you can all smell it!"

"It's Amortentia, Miss Black," Slughorn said slowly. "It smells differently to everyone—we all smell what we are most in love with."

"No." _No._ No no no no…

She grabbed her books with shaking hands, ignoring Avery's puzzled murmurs, and headed toward the door. Slughorn called after her, bewildered. "Miss Black—I shall be forced to take points from Slytherin!"

She stumbled out the door, leaving a stunned classroom—and that terrible, glorious scent—behind.

Alone in the common room with everyone still in class, she rubbed the onyx stones until her fingers were raw, willing them to alight, to burn, staring into the green fire as if she could conjure His face there herself.

_Call me_, she thought intently, _call me now_, but the necklace stayed cool and the fire flickered on uncaring, yielding no answers to questions she could not think how to put into words.

When she arrived at the fourth floor mirror at midnight, the others were already waiting. They looked at each other uneasily as she approached, and Avery cleared his throat.

"Everything alright, Black?"

"Yes," Bellatrix said shortly. "Get on with it."

"What happened in Potions tod—"

"I said _get on with it_," she snarled violently, and the others exchanged looks.

"Bella," murmured Rodolphus, moving close enough to speak so that the others could not hear, "I'm worried about you. We all are. You've been training too hard and it's taking its toll."

"I don't need your _concern_, Lestrange," spat Bellatrix, shoving him away and looking around at the others furiously. "None of you have any idea what I can handle and fortunately it's not for _you _to decide. Now open the passage before I hex all of you into oblivion."

Avery sighed, but placed his hands on the mirror without further comment. He winced as the blue light engulfed him, but in a moment the glass disappeared as always, revealing the secret passageway. They entered, one by one, and just in time—it closed faster than usual, nearly trapping Severus Snape's leg in the entryway.

Mulciber raised his eyebrows at Avery. "Careful, mate. What's the hurry?"

The dark-skinned boy shrugged irritably, ashen and shaken as he always looked after scrying. "You try it next time, _mate_. 'Purity of soul', they say it requires—don't think my soul's so pure anymore, do you?"

None of them had any reply to that.

The cave at the end of the passageway, these days, was nearly unrecognizable from their early, bloody discovery of it last year. Spellbooks were piled in stacks along the walls, duelling marks lined the ground, and complex diagrams littered the stone walls. It was the perfect training space: large enough to fit the entire Death Club inside, and remote enough to avoid detection. The Dark Lord typically sent one or two trusted Death Eaters—usually the fathers of several of the students—to oversee training sessions, rarely gracing them with His own presence, which was reserved generally for their once-a-month meetings during Hogsmeade trips, in an arranged secret room at the back of the Hog's Head. Tonight, of course, was only an _ordinary_ meeting.

"First," said Mulciber, nodding at the rest of them as they sat down, arranging themselves in a leisurely circle, "we need to talk about our little Hogsmeade rendezvous. Rendezvouses? Shut up, Macnair, I'm not French. Rosier, lose that meddlesome girlfriend of yours—no offense, Black—because the last thing we need is her poking around the Hog's Head asking where you went all the time. Lie better or you're out."

Rabastan Lestrange snorted. "If you need any tips for sneaking around behind your girlfriend's back…" His laugh turned sharply into a cough at Bella's glare.

"It's true, Evan," she admitted grudgingly. "Andy's far too interested in our affairs and there's only so much I can do."

He nodded shortly, and Rodolphus changed the subject. "My father says we're to be trained in Occlumency and Legilimency before we can move on to the rest of the Unforgivables. Might all want to prepare yourselves for that."

"Legala—ledge—wha's that?" asked Amycus Carrow, large brow furrowed.

"Mind-reading," said Snape, sallow features lit up in sudden excitement.

Rodolphus nodded. "And defence against the same. Aurors are trained in both—if any of us are ever taken into custody, we need to be prepared."

"But we won't be," Henry Jugson said nervously. "Taken into custody, I mean. We're not _terrorists_…"

"You might want to look into the Ministry's definition of that word," Mulciber said wryly.

"A terrorist," Bellatrix said with a harsh, cold clarity, "is what this world calls anyone willing to fight for their birthright. Are you willing, Jugson?"

"Er—_yes_—"

"Then prepare to be called a terrorist." She smiled grimly, adding as an afterthought, "And don't get caught."

They were all silent for a moment, the air taut with contemplation.

"It's a lot sometimes, isn't it?" Wilkes spoke up finally into the silence. "The Dark Lord's becoming the most infamous man in the world, more and more people are dying and disappearing every day, and no one even knows we exist."

"Imagine their faces in a few months," said Walden Macnair, grinning as he nudged Crabbe and Goyle. "They'll never see it coming."

"_We _can't even see it coming," said Evan, rolling his eyes in supreme condescension. "The Dark Lord isn't sharing his master plan with anyone, not yet—"

"I'm betting your father knows," Bellatrix corrected sharply. As if Damien would allow himself to be left in the dark about anything. Evan paled slightly.

"No matter what, we'll be prepared," said Mulciber. "Which means time to get serious about recruitment. We should be initiating at least three new members next month. Black, what's the status on your baby cousin?"

Color flared to Bella's cheeks. "We've discussed this! Regulus isn't joining unless Avery's sister does as well!"

"That will _not _be happening," Avery said flatly. "She's pining for a half-blood these days—some Gryffindor, something Thomas. I have enough problems trying to keep her away from him to drag her into this."

Bellatrix tried not to let relief show on her face. "Pity…"

"Regardless—" started Mulciber, but he cut off immediately, staring at the entrance to the cave, where a large shadow was darkening the entrance.

"Well, 'ello," said Fenrir Greyback, smiling wide to bare sharpened yellow teeth.

They all leapt to their feet, wands drawn, shouting, but Bellatrix pushed the rest aside and strode to the cave entrance, stopping only a few feet away from the werewolf's face and ignoring his rancid breath. "Don't worry," she said lightly, meeting his eyes without a shred of fear, "he's not going to hurt us. He's not even going to _try_. Are you, Greyback?" He growled at her, looking as if he wanted nothing more than to rip her limb from limb, but she only smiled. "No, you're not going to risk displeasing your master again."

"Careful, little girl," snarled Greyback. "He's not my master."

"Call it what you like," shrugged Bellatrix, twirling her wand between her fingers nonchalantly. "Why are you here, then?"

The werewolf sneered. "The Dark Lord has asked me to deliver a message."

Bella arched a brow, relishing his obvious fury at her flippancy. "So you're His _owl_ now?"

He struck out at her with sharp, claw-like nails. Rodolphus was at her side in an instant but she had already leaped back, shaking a finger. "Ah ah ah…play nice, now, ickle wolf pup."

"If the Dark Lord gave you a message, let's hear it," Rodolphus said swiftly, before a rage-blinded Greyback could attack again.

The werewolf's yellow gaze fixated on the faded scar at Rodolphus's throat, and his anger ebbed away a bit as he smiled. "Alright then, boy. You won' be seein' the Dark Lord for awhile. No Hogsmeade play time this month. He's got more important things to do, y'see…" He looked scornfully at Bellatrix. "More important people t'see."

"Oh, those were His exact words, were they, Greyback?" she demanded. "Somehow I doubt that."

"The message is the same," snapped Rodolphus. "No Hogsmeade meeting this month. Got it. Is that all?" he asked the grey wolf, fingers tight on his wand.

"Almost," Greyback sneered, looking around at all of them now. Some of the younger students shrank back further into the shadows. "Also wants you to know a test is coming. Won' know when…won' know how…but be ready, 'coz failure won' be pretty." He licked his lips sickeningly. "Personally, I'm rootin' for failure."

"Very mysterious," deadpanned Mulciber, to a few snickers behind him.

"Message received," Rodolphus said coolly, and with a final bloody grin, the werewolf disappeared into the forest beyond, leaving the Death Club alone in a dark cave once more.

* * *

Bellatrix was sulky despite herself the day of the Hogsmeade trip a few weeks later.

With Andy busy with Evan, she and Narcissa had made plans to get butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks, but even considering how little time she spent with Cissy nowadays it was difficult not to resent the fact that she would ordinarily be spending that time with the Dark Lord instead.

Which is why, when she felt the familiar burn around her throat out of nowhere, feeling the onyx stones light up beneath her scarf—once, twice, three times, then cool again—she nearly leapt into the air in exhilaration.

He had called off the meeting for the rest of them, but not for her. _She _was a special case.

"Cissy," Bella said carefully, turning quickly to her sister, "Can you meet your friends at the Three Broomsticks instead? Something's come up—"

Narcissa peered at her with a sly, knowing smirk. "Rodolphus?"

Bellatrix blinked. "I—_yes. _Yes, Rodolphus wants to spend some time at—at Madam Puddifoot's." She suppressed riotous internal laughter at the idea of Rodolphus Lestrange ever setting foot inside the premises. "_Alone._"

Cissy took her hands, pale cheeks flushed with sudden excitement. "Bella, do you think he'll _propose_?"

Horrified, Bellatrix wrenched away. "Gods no!"

Narcissa rolled her eyes prettily. "Don't act so surprised, Bella, everyone knows it's bound to happen soon. With your debut next month—"

"I refuse to have this conversation," sputtered Bellatrix. "I am _not _marrying Rodolphus."

"Then who?" demanded Cissy. "You're nearly of age, Bella! Would you rather Father chose your husband for you? The Lestranges are an old family, the elders would have to approve, but what's more...you love Rodolphus. I know you do."

Bellatrix laughed, too loudly. "Oh, do you?"

"Yes," Narcissa said firmly, "I do. I know what love looks like, Bella, and lately it looks like _you_. I can see it in your eyes, your cheeks, the way you walk and talk and stare off into the distance all the time with that faraway, longing look on your face." Bellatrix clenched and unclenched her fists, nails digging into her palms, and Cissy gave a long-suffering sigh. "Go to Madam Puddifoot's. Some pink cherubs might do you good." She took off toward the Three Broomsticks without another word, waving over a few of her fellow fifth-years.

_Love. _What did silly little Cissy know about anything? A sudden gust of wind smelled strangely familiar_: snakeskin and fire_. Running shaking fingers through her hair, Bellatrix waited until her sister was inside, then took off running toward the Hog's Head. Through the side door, nodding at the bartender, down the stairs to the basement, and into the farthest hidden antechamber of the bar.

"Master, forgive the delay," she panted, out of breath, racing into the room, "I was with my sisters…" She trailed off apprehensively, for the Dark Lord was not the only figure waiting in the antechamber.

She recognized the other man's face immediately: long and pockmarked, with a half-smile that didn't quite meet his cold green eyes. It was none other than Augustus Rookwood, one of the Ministry's infamous Unspeakables. No one knew what he did or how he did it, but if Lord Voldemort had acquired a double agent within the Department of Mysteries his services must be invaluable.

His gaunt, scarred face transformed at the sight of her—clearly he knew her as well as she knew him—and he looked back and forth between Bellatrix and the Dark Lord, disbelieving. "You have Imperiused the eldest daughter of the House of Black?"

The Dark Lord's smile bared His teeth, white and sharp. "Hardly. Bella, come."

She walked forward uncertainly to stand at His side, but He gestured, instead, to the floor. _Kneel_, went the unspoken command. Flushing and unbearably flustered, Bellatrix lowered herself to her knees. "She is quite willing," He continued to Rookwood, undaunted. "Eager, even." He casually traced a cold finger down her throat, across the necklace, beneath her shirt and between her heaving cleavage, ignoring the scrapes and burns—her eyelids flickered at the touch and she let out a small moan as if He'd coaxed it out of her…perhaps He had.

"A precious asset indeed," Rookwood managed, breathing rather shallowly. "I am astonished Arcturus would ever allow—"

"I am not in contact with Arcturus Black," Lord Voldemort said sharply, causing Rookwood to noticeably cringe. Bella looked up, interested. He had never mentioned the Black patriarch before. "If we are to be partners, Rookwood, it will be necessary for you to understand the need for absolute secrecy in our endeavours."

Rookwood gave another cold half-smile. "I deal in secrets, my Lord. Of that you can be assured."

The Dark Lord gave the slightest of nods and motioned for Bellatrix to stand. She rose unsteadily to her feet. "This is to be your Hogwarts contact. She will provide you with status reports on Dumbledore's activity and whatever other useful information the students may supply leading up to the date I have given you, as well as carry out any necessary tasks within the castle that you require. When all the pieces have fallen into place—you strike."

Rookwood swallowed. "Yes, my Lord." He turned to Bellatrix, fixing his gaze on her face rather than her chest with effort. "A pleasure, Miss Black."

She nodded, more than a little thrilled at her newly chosen role as spy. But—"Master…what date? I—I don't understand."

"You will, Bella," said the Dark Lord, a red glint of restrained excitement in His eyes. "We are to dismantle the Ministry one player at a time." Bella's eyes widened—that sounded like nothing so much as assassination. Were the Death Eaters truly capable…_Of course they are_, came the immediate answer. With Him in power, nothing was impossible. But—_a test is coming. _How did she fit in?

"That will be all, Rookwood," He said now, and with a low bow, the Unspeakable Disapparated.

The Dark Lord grazed her cheek, ablaze with satisfaction. "Well done, Bella."

"My lord?" she looked at Him questioningly. "I haven't done anything."

"You were present, and you obeyed. That is all Lord Voldemort required." He eyed her, amused at her dishevelment. "But I sense agitation. Tell me, Bella…how are your classes?"

She was struck all at once with the immense strangeness of standing in a hidden room in Hogsmeade discussing schoolwork with the most feared man in the wizarding world. "They're…fine, my Lord." His gaze was steady, penetrating. Suddenly nervous, she lowered her eyes and cleared her throat before continuing. "Professor Slughorn is teaching us about…about love potions."

"Love potions." He circled her slowly, snake-like and predatory. "Fascinating. And tell me, Bella…what is _love_?" He trailed his wand around her as He circled her, collarbone to shoulder blade, leaving a searing burn mark in its wake. Bellatrix hissed softly.

"I don't know, Master." The wand pressed harder, burned deeper, and she shut her eyes tightly against the pain. "I don't know!"

"Shall I tell you, then?" He was speaking in a measured, conversational tone, but Bellatrix shivered at the veiled vehemence underneath. "Love is weakness, Bella. Love is submission, love is surrender, love is _death_. And Bella…beautiful Bella…" He ran spidery fingers through her hair. "_You die only for me_."

She was trembling, unable to speak for several long moments. When her voice at last resurfaced, she spoke it without daring to think. "Amortentia." The question leaked out of her like a traitorous light beneath her skin. "What does it smell like to you, my Lord?"

She held her breath as He turned—slowly, perilously slow—and exhaled in a sharp sigh as His long white fingers grasped her face with the harsh, skeletal force of bone. A shiver of panic and pleasure shot through her. He was close—too close—and lost in the red haze of His eyes, Bella was entirely unprepared for the crushing force of His lips.

He kissed her with His whole mouth—hard like ice; cold, cruel, knowing—devouring her breath like a Dementor seeking out her soul, swallowing her whole. Her body came alive for Him: for the taste of blood and horror and death on His tongue, the scent of serpents and ashes on His robes, the low hum of _power _pulsating just underneath His skin. When He set her free twice as suddenly, she released a trembling, shuddering gasp.

"It smells like nothing, Bella," He said so quietly He might not have spoken at all. "Nothing." _And you_, went unspoken, _mean nothing to me._

"Master—" she choked out, lips throbbing, mind spinning, and He stopped her with a slow, raised hand.

"But Bella, I believe we have an uninvited guest."

She wrenched her eyes away from Him with concentrated effort and rested them instead on the doorway, across which a shadow had fallen: her mirror image made younger and lighter—Andromeda, face gone slack with horror.

The world was blurred and shadowed. Bellatrix struggled to remain standing. "Andy…what are you…how long have you…" Andromeda's steel gaze held the answer: _long enough_.

"She followed you," the Dark Lord said impassively, bloodshot gaze fixated on Andromeda's narrowed grey eyes. She visibly recoiled at the serpentine cadence of His voice, but did not move or blink or look away. "She has been following you and the Rosier boy for several weeks now, attempting to discover our meeting place. It appears," He finished with a touch of dry irony, "she has at last succeeded."

Bella swallowed, blinking rapidly in a desperate attempt to clear her vision and her head. "Andromeda…this is—"

"I can guess who he is, Bella," snapped Andy, her first words, mouth in a hard line, refusing to look away from the Dark Lord. Bellatrix imagined how He must look to her: grotesque, unspeakable, frightening. The unseen monster under everyone's beds turned flesh before her now, glowing with Dark energy.

"You," Lord Voldemort said softly, stepping forward, "are so very like your sister." He reached out to trace a cool finger down Andromeda's cheek exactly as He had down Bella's only moments prior, and she too stiffened, shuddered…not in pleasure, but revulsion. With a strange, satisfied glint in His eyes, He said softer, "Or perhaps not so alike at all."

In a swirling flash of green cloak and light brown hair, Andromeda broke eye contact at last, spun around, and ran.

Bellatrix was frozen in place, staring at the spot where her sister had just stood, hyper-aware of the Dark Lord's presence once more at her side. "Go after her," came His sibilant murmur in her ear, one hand pressing hard against the lowest curve of her back, calling up old bruises, "but know this, Bella: you will never trust your sister again."

She let herself be led to the doorway as if walking through a dream, and as soon as He was no longer touching her, she ran.

Andromeda was out of the passage and halfway down the path from Hogsmeade, hurrying down a now-deserted path. Bella readied herself. Steadied herself. And now: "Andy, stop! Whatever you think you know—you don't understand!"

Andromeda whirled around, shaking. "I saw enough to understand _perfectly_!" Bellatrix stared helplessly, brows drawn together in desperate consternation. "I don't even know you anymore," Andy choked out tightly, backing away and blinking back tears, "and I don't want to. I don't want to know the kind of girl who could love Lord Voldemort."

Did the setting sky grow darker at the name, or was Bellatrix too staggered and stunned to see properly? "You can't say that," she heard herself whisper, lips cracked and dry. "Any of that. You can't."

"Tell me this, Bella," said Andromeda, trying unsuccessfully to control the shaking of her voice. "If it came down between us and him—if you had to choose between him and the Family—what would be your choice?"

"Family first," she said immediately, the words feeling harsh and hollow in her throat. "Always." _Toujours._

Andy's eyes flickered feverishly back and forth between Bella's own. "You're lying," she said finally, grim with finality. "And not just to me—to yourself."

Bellatrix watched her sister disappear along the path leading back to the castle, melting quickly into shadow.

The sky had gone black.

* * *

The corridors were empty but for a few lone students leaving the library or the astronomy tower. Even the portraits did not stir, staring down at her as she passed with a kind of eerie, instinctive knowledge that precluded sound. If not for the uncanny stillness all around, she might not have noticed the solitary blur of movement and motion as she passed a darkened alcove.

Two boys, locked in a passionate embrace. One a half-blooded Ravenclaw with wavy auburn hair she vaguely remembered to be called Benjamin Fenwick, and the other a seventh-year Slytherin, with familiar golden features and unmistakable cornflower eyes.

"_Evan?_"

He disentangled himself with a sharp gasp, whirling to face her and looking more terrified than she had ever seen him. "Bella—oh gods, Bella—it's not what it—"

"Oh, I think it's _exactly _what it looks like, cousin," Bellatrix spat, seizing his tie and drawing her wand. The other boy gave a nervous yelp and took off running down the opposite corridor—Evan looked pained.

"Benjy! Benjy, wait!" He didn't turn around, disappearing around a corner in an instant, and Evan let out a strangled sob.

Bellatrix tightened her grip on his tie, wanting to squeeze his throat instead. Careless enough to ignite Andromeda's suspicions, stupid enough to let her out of his sight in Hogsmeade, callous enough to betray her—she could kill him. _Should_. "I cannot believe you!"

"You think I want to be this way?" choked out Evan, blue eyes wide with panic and glassy with tears. "I'm the last in the Rosier line, Bella—if my father even so much as suspected—"

"Shut up," hissed Bellatrix. "As if I care whether you prefer girls, or boys, or blast-ended skrewts. My _sister_, you prat! You've been leading on my _sister! _If you thought I'd ever let you get away with that—"

"It was her idea," Evan broke in miserably, voice low and deadened.

Bellatrix froze. "Excuse me?" The Dark Lord's voice echoed in her skull: _You will never trust your sister again._

"Pretending to date each other, sneaking around—Andy has her own dirty little secret, and if you think _mine's _bad…" He gave a short, mirthless laugh, and met Bella's eyes in desperation. "Please, Bella—my father—he can't know, especially not now—"

Bellatrix set her jaw. "_Tell me everything_."

* * *

It didn't take long to find Andromeda.

She sat at her desk in the dormitories, scribbling intently at a hastily unraveled scroll of parchment, quill pressing so hard on the page that it nearly tore the paper. When Bella entered—no knock—she didn't bother to look up.

"I'm writing to Father," she said shortly. Her eyes were swollen from crying; rimmed in red. "It's for your own good, Bella. I know you won't listen to me, but you'll have to listen to him."

Bellatrix said nothing, leaning leisurely against the doorframe. Andy's determined defiance wavered—perhaps she had expected a screaming match, or a wrestling match, or both—but only for a moment, then she sniffed slightly and resumed the quill's furious attack on parchment. "You're not going to stop me." It was not a question.

"I don't need to."

Some dangerous edge in Bella's voice made Andromeda look up at last, meeting her eyes, grey to grey. They stared at each other for the briefest of seconds—Andy furious and distraught, Bella preternaturally, frighteningly calm—then something snapped. Andromeda threw down the quill and stood up, knocking over her chair and seizing her sister's hands.

"Think of what this is doing to you, Bella!" There was a desperate sheen to her skin—clammy and cold. Bellatrix resisted the urge to tear her hands away and scrub them clean. "Think of what you'll become!"

Bella gave a grim, tiny smile. "But what have you become, Andy?" She extracted one hand and smoothed a stray strand of silky light brown hair behind Andromeda's ear, grazing her forehead lightly—so lightly—with sharp nails. "Sweet, naïve, _innocent _little Andy." A perilous pause. "Darling _'Dromeda_."

To her credit, Andromeda did not gasp. She did not cry, plead, or fall. She stood tall and rigidly straight, frozen still, and closed her eyes. "Evan."

"It was a good plan," said Bella coolly, stepping away to admire the unfinished letter on the desk. "Clever. You had us all fooled. Almost a year now of playing the Mudblood's whore."

Andy's icy composure melted furiously into hot rage in an instant as she spat out, "Better than being Lord Voldemort's whore, I'm sure."

Bella's blow sent Andromeda staggering back against the desk—the inkpot fell and broke against the floor, spilling black blood. When Andy pulled her fingers away from her cheek, there were red claw marks on her skin where the Dark Lord had touched her.

Bellatrix felt her hand shake a little, pulse racing. She remembered falling to the floor of Damien's office after he had slapped her, shaken and silenced as he stood over her, unyielding. _This was how it felt to be powerful._

"I don't even know you anymore," she said as if from somewhere very far away, "and I don't want to." Andromeda was crying now: ugly, shuddering tears. "I don't want to know the kind of girl who could love a Mudblood." Bella leaned in close. "Who would _you _choose, Andy?" She reached out almost tenderly to wipe away a tear from her sister's blood-streaked face—Andromeda shrank back, and Bellatrix hardened. "You'll never have to make that choice."

Her hand was on the doorknob when Andy spoke: begging at last.

"Bella, please. Don't hurt him. Do anything to me, but don't hurt him. _Please_."

"Your precious Mudblood's life is in _your _hands," said Bellatrix, voice like cold iron. "If you value it, you will not see or speak to him again. Oh, and Andromeda?" She half-turned with a sharp, sardonic smile. "If I were you, I'd tear up that letter."

The dormitory door slammed shut, silencing Andy's sobs.

"Is everything alright?" asked Regulus, looking up from where he sat by the fireplace with his books in the common room as Bellatrix approached, casting a shadow over his papers.

"Oh yes," she said softly. "Yes, Reggie, everything is fine. I've been meaning to talk to you about something, actually—something exciting. We should have supper together tomorrow night…just you and me."

Regulus's serious grey eyes widened. "I would like that," her little cousin said shyly, and she smiled. _You were never my favorite, but times are changing fast._

She left him by the fire with a final telling smile and climbed the stairs to the boys' dormitories.

"You're late," smirked Rodolphus. With a single pointed glare, his two roommates deferentially left the room, brushing past Bella without comment. "Little too much fun in Hogsmeade, I take it."

"There have been all sorts of _fun _occurrences tonight."

She caught her breath as he pulled her to him and crushed her to the bed, tearing off their robes in several urgent, fluid motions. "Time for one more," he growled—fingers on her scarred thighs, tongue on her onyx-bound collarbone—but she pushed away his hands and sat up very still.

"Do you love me, Rodolphus?"

She may as well have Stunned him. His lips parted in a shocked _o_, brows arched in surprise. She waited breathless for the answer. A beat—perhaps two—and then he softened in defeat. "You know I do."

Her lips sought his, crushing him into a kiss like death. When he tried to kiss back, she bit him, filling both their mouths with blood.

After a moment he broke away, gasping for life. "I love you, Bella."

She quieted him with a single brush of her finger, relishing the quickness with which he fell silent, staring at her worshipfully. She had never noticed that before—how he looked at her. She could crush his heart into powder with a glance.

For he had said it, and the spell of it was tacit between them; a spell that only she could break. _You're mine_, she thought with a thrill. _I'm His, but you're mine_, and for now, it was enough.

She twisted out from underneath him and pinned his arms above his head with a silent incantation. "Kiss me," she ordered, nails ripping at his skin. He obeyed, and her blood sang with triumph.

Perched unflinchingly above him, ready to descend, she spoke one final question: "Rodolphus Lestrange, will you marry me?"

The wind against the windowpane outside rang like cold, high laughter.


	9. The Fall of the House of Black

**DARK**  
Chapter IX – "The Fall of the House of Black"

* * *

"_Wizarding high society is abuzz with excitement this week as the House of Black prepares to host the debut ball of its eldest daughter, Bellatrix, who came of age just three days ago. Rumours persist that the Black Family is using this long-awaited event as a means not only to deflect recent scandals, but to overshadow them entirely with an engagement announcement. No surprise as to the lucky soon-to-be-groom: long-time beau Rodolphus Lestrange was recently spotted at several upscale jewelry stores in Diagon Alley, no doubt searching for a worthy ring…"_

—an excerpt from the November 30, 1974 edition of "Witches Wear Daily"

"_Within the Ministry, tensions grow high. Chief Undersecretary to the Minister Millicent Bagnold is reportedly drafting a new anti-terrorism decree to be submitted to the Wizengamot this Friday, while Minister of Magic Nobby Leach continues to publicly condemn the actions of the mysterious Pureblood supremacist leader known as Lord Voldemort. Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement Damien Rosier pledged increased national security measures in accordance with intensifying Muggleborn attacks in a speech just this morning…"_

—an excerpt from the November 30, 1974 edition of "The Daily Prophet"

* * *

**LONDON – **November 1974

"I still can't believe Mother's letting you wear that dress."

Narcissa was sitting rapt on the chaise lounge in Bella's Grimmauld Place guest chamber, nearly vibrating with excitement as a small army of house elves arranged the finishing touches to her sister's ballgown. It was custom-made by Bellatrix's request: yards of imported charm-laced Italian silk clinging sinuously to every curve, culminating in a neckline so plunging it required half a dozen sticking spells to avoid indecency. Shimmering and iridescent, the dark green fabric itself seemed to change colour with every shift of light, and—when she moved—resembled nothing so much as the glistening skin of a snake.

It was extravagant; it was inappropriate; it was going to shock and scandalize everyone at the ball. Which of course meant it was perfect.

"In case you've forgotten," Bellatrix drawled, sitting down at the boudoir and motioning to one of the house elves to clasp the onyx necklace, "I'm _of age _now, Cissy. Mother couldn't stop me if she tried." This was patently untrue—well aware that her mother could easily ensure a change of wardrobe if she cared enough to insist, Bella had been counting on Druella's relief at the proper engagement to cancel out dismay at the improper attire. Success.

Narcissa, who had been planning her first society ball since infancy and was herself dressed demurely head-to-toe in white, gave a dramatic sigh. "I can't wait two more years for my debut, I simply can't."

"Neither can Malfoy," retorted Bellatrix, remembering with a pang of irritation that he was to be Cissy's escort for the night. Having managed to avoid the smug bastard since Alphard's funeral, Bella looked forward to seeing him with the sort of bracing resignation most people associated with unpleasant visits to St. Mungo's.

Narcissa blushed, delighted. "Yes, well, perhaps I'll have an engagement to announce at _my_ debut as well."

"Nothing would please me more," Bellatrix said archly, fixating on the house elf now arranging her hair in the mirror.

"Oh, I'm glad!" exclaimed Narcissa, pointedly oblivious to sarcasm. "You know how thrilled I am for you and Rodolphus." She collapsed back onto the lounge with a dreamy expression. "Who would have thought you'd fall in love with Rodolphus Lestrange? And to have him be the only one you've ever been with…ever even kissed…there's nothing more romantic than loving only one man your whole life, don't you think?" She gave an idyllic sigh, and Bellatrix studied her in the glass. Naïve little Cissy, lost in her delusions of fantasy and fairytale—she would know, someday, how cruel the real world could be. _And then she will pretend not to know. _Of all of them, Narcissa was always best at playing make-believe.

"Girls," cried Druella Black, throwing open the double French doors and jolting each sister out of her reverie (and the house elves into simpering bows), "do you _realize _how late it is? The guests are already arriving." Her frazzled gaze swept the room, cringing slightly at Bella's gown—it was several beats before she seemed to notice someone missing. "_Where_ is Andromeda?"

Bellatrix and Narcissa glanced at each other. "She's—not well, Mother," Cissy said delicately. "Not since things ended with Evan."

"What Narcissa means to say," Bellatrix said coolly, "is that she's sulking in her room."

Druella shook her head impatiently. "Evan is a sweet boy, but Andromeda is a daughter of the House of Black." Bellatrix refrained with difficulty from rolling her eyes. _Unlike you_, _Mother. _"This sort of behaviour cannot be tolerated."

Bella couldn't contain a mirthless laugh at _that_—oh, if they only knew—and Cissy looked at her strangely before turning back to Druella. "Of course, Mother. I'll fetch her." She hurried down the hall in a flurry of white silk, and Druella sighed heavily, clutching at her heavy strands of pearls.

"Bellatrix, dear, it's time for your entrance. Your father is waiting."

Nodding, Bella stole once last glance into the mirror before standing up and heading toward the door. She recognized the face staring back at her, certainly: smooth black curtains of hair, dark red lips, aristocratic cheekbones and ivory skin, but the _eyes_—her eyes were different than she remembered. There was a wild sheen to them, now…a veiled, masked savagery shining out behind thick lashes and heavy lids. Seventeen years old. _Toujours pur._

Cygnus was waiting at the landing, dressed imposingly in his most elaborate ceremonial robes. She could hear harp music drifting from upstairs in an elegant waltz. Her father smiled as she approached, that rare softness he reserved for his favourite daughter overcoming the usual harsh lines of his features. "My beautiful warrior."

She smirked at the child's nickname and took his outstretched arm. "I have done what was expected of me, Father." _And what wasn't._

"Yes," said Cygnus, turning to look at her with a strange, searching expression, Black-grey eyes keen and discerning. "Do you love him, Bella?"

There was that word again. _Love_. She almost laughed. "Does it matter?"

Cygnus Black's iron gaze faced forward once more. "No."

Father and daughter descended the staircase.

The grand foyer—enchanted and transformed into a ballroom for the evening—went still upon their appearance, breaking at once into polite applause. Bellatrix plastered on a mechanical smile and gave a gracious wave. _This is all for me, _she thought listlessly, gazing around at the guests: there were the Black elders seated at the grand dias; the Rosiers to the left—Damien looking unnaturally anxious, pulling at his gloves—and the Lestranges to the right; representatives from all the old families scattered about the room, interspersed with varying important figures in the wizarding community; and there, in the centre: Rodolphus Lestrange, resplendent in green-and-silver dress robes, handsomer than ever, smiling his sharp, wolfish smile.

He nodded to Cygnus as they drew near, then took Bella's hand, leading her at once into a waltz. The music swelled, and other dancing couples followed their lead onto the dance floor.

"Don't we make a stunning pair?" murmured Bellatrix, and Rodolphus looked her up and down with warm, predatory appreciation.

"_In saecula saeculorum_," he said mockingly, dipping her low. _Into the ages. _The traditional Pureblood wedding vow. "You'd be much more stunning out of that gown."

Bellatrix gave a playful pout. "Don't you like it?"

"Oh, it leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination," said Rodolphus, "so I _imagine_ there's not a man in this room who doesn't want to kill me."

She laughed softly. "Not if you kill them all first."

The introductory waltz ended in an abrupt whirl of light and colour, and the dance floor went still again upon a loud clink of glass: Arcturus rising from his throne-like chair in the middle of the dias, calling for silence.

The Black patriarch rested his gaze on Bella and lifted his glass in toast. "We gather here tonight to mark the formal presentation of my eldest grand-niece, Bellatrix Elladora, into wizarding society." With all eyes on her, Bellatrix gave a low, meticulous curtsy to the unanimous toast of the guests. Arcturus waited for it to die before continuing, voice ringing out authoritatively in the fresh, fervent silence. "As she comes of age and joins in the customs of our line, so too does the House of Black join with another grand House—noble, ancient, and above all things Pure." A low, anticipatory murmur; the rustle of a hundred whispered sighs. Bellatrix stood very still, suddenly unable to look at Rodolphus. "It is the great honour of our House," said Arcturus as the whole room held its breath, "to announce the formal engagement of Bellatrix Elladora Black to Rodolphus Leander Lestrange."

Thunderous applause.

Rodolphus was kneeling, someone—Narcissa, Druella—was crying, and Bellatrix slowly extended her hand to receive the ring. Eighteen-karat elfin white-gold, topped with an enormous glittering emerald and sliding smoothly onto her finger, where it would stay until her wedding day.

_Applause. Applause. Applause._

"It's beautiful," Bellatrix said mechanically, loud enough for the elders to hear. The onyx necklace felt cold as ice against her throat, and she shivered in the snakeskin gown.

Rodolphus rose and kissed her—a chaste, ironic press of his lips to her cheek—before taking her by the waist once more as the music began anew. They danced for only a moment, however, before Bella was spun away by new partners, each eager to talk to the celebrated belle of the ball.

By the time Lucius Malfoy cut in, she was almost—_almost_—glad to see him, if only as an escape from an endless stream of insincere admirers and monotonous congratulations. Malfoy would _never._

"I have to say," he said slickly, ignoring her customary look of distaste in his presence, "that was perhaps the most passionless proposal I've ever seen. I'd almost believe you were a virginal blushing bride, if it weren't for that…well, do you call that a dress? No offense meant, of course, Bella—may I call you Bella?"

Surrounded by dancing pairs of guests, Bellatrix bared her teeth, wishing she could sink them into his arm. "None taken, _Lucius_."

She would never cease to marvel at Malfoy's ability to turn even the most innocent of smiles into a sneer. "And _what _a ring," he drawled, twirling her as he admired the emerald. "I can't imagine where the Lestranges found the small fortune to pay for it, but I suppose they'll have a _large _fortune soon."

"Larger than the Malfoys, in any case," Bellatrix said sweetly.

He chuckled, indulgent. "You two do make quite the team. He'll be pleased." There was no doubt who _He _was. Certainly not Rodolphus.

Bellatrix forced another spin, saying lightly, "You presume to know His pleasures?"

He studied her with a cold, wan smile. She could almost feel the serpent she knew Marked his arm burning through the fabric of his dress robes. "You still think you're better than me, don't you? Always have."

"No, Lucius." _You weak, gilded fool. _"I think I'm worse."

"May I?" It was perhaps the one person Bellatrix wished to see less than Lucius Malfoy: Damien Rosier, holding out one elegant white-gloved hand.

Lucius simply bowed, betraying no sign of personal recognition, and disappeared back into the sea of guests, no doubt in search of Cissy. _Bastard._

"How are you, Uncle?" Bella asked automatically, flushing slightly at the memory of their last conversation. So much had happened since then—too much.

"Well," Damien said shortly. She eyed him inconspicuously—his shrewd cornflower eyes, usually the only one of his otherwise guileless features to betray the cunning beneath, were darting tensely about the room, and his typical grace was sorely lacking: Bellatrix found herself having to lead, as her uncle had plainly forgotten how to waltz.

"You don't look well," she ventured carefully, steering them away from a nearby couple and narrowly avoiding collision. Was he ill? Angry with her? Simply exhausted under recent burdens?

"Appearances can be deceiving."

He handed her off to her next partner with a wry smile, and Bellatrix, puzzled, looked up into the severe, uncompromising features of a different—_great_—uncle. Arcturus Black himself, deigning to convey his blessing with a dance.

"Bellatrix Elladora."

"Grand Uncle."

He bowed. She curtsied. They moved in slow, elegant machinations, Arcturus's ancient grip on her hand surprisingly strong.

"Look around you, my daughter," he said quietly. "What do you see?"

Bella's eyes swept the ballroom, glancing over the shimmering, sparkling crowd. The elite of the Pureblood elite—allies, flatterers, sycophants, keen to impress even as envy and malice couched venomously behind smiling eyes. They paid lip service to bloodlines and Purity, but how_ few_ of them dared to take action in defence of their beliefs. _Mice, _she thought scornfully. _Mice waiting to be devoured by snakes._

"I'm sure you will tell me, Grand Uncle," she said aloud with barely restrained insolence.

Arcturus Black did not smile. "You see the last desperate vestiges of a dying world. A society in decline, decaying, falling apart. Pure blood runs thin, child. In these desolate, dangerous times, true victory is the prize of those who focus on birth and rebirth, not death and destruction."

She blinked, uneasy at the veiled allusion to politics, then recognized the true implication of his words and set her jaw, hot fury welling up within her and threatening to overflow. "I have always known my role, sir." The enormous emerald weighed heavy on her finger. A Pureblood breeding mare was of course all the elders would have her be._But not Him._ Never Him. _He_ knew what she was capable of. _He _would ensure she was destined for more.

_Girls_, she remembered overhearing her Grand Uncle say once, muttered to Orion behind closed doors. _All Cygnus ever managed. A waste…a waste_.

Arcturus merely nodded. "You love the stars, do you not?"

The Family namesakes. "We all do," she said stiffly, trying to ignore the barking laugh echoing madly in her head.

"Then perhaps you have learned in your Astronomy lessons," said Arcturus Black, "that the stars in our night sky are only lifeless reflections of their former selves, galaxies upon galaxies away. Though we can see them now, they are truly long gone, replaced by younger galaxies we will not see for many billions of years." She narrowed her eyes, and he finished impassibly, "New stars are being born every moment, but the stars we see now, Bellatrix Elladora—_Gamma Orionis_—are already dead."

The waltz ended.

Amid renewed applause, Bellatrix took advantage of the guests' vocal appreciation for a surprise display of decorative enchantments to slip outside and onto the balcony. The empty London streets below were dark and quiet, and the nighttime air was cool. Above, the stars glittered malevolently, shining on even in death. _So much for metaphor._

"Bored already?"

Rodolphus. He came up behind her and encircled her, kissing the cold black stones and finally the exposed skin of her collarbone. She leaned into him, sighing. "I do have my limits."

"Spectacle and ceremony," Rodolphus murmured, pressing her closer. She smiled at the hardening bulge beneath his dress robes. "We don't need it, any of it. None of it means anything to me."

_Liar._ Weeks of Legilimency lessons had made her shrewd. She turned to face him, leaning up against the balcony and wrapping her legs around his waist. "You're telling me you don't get a thrill from owning me in front of everyone?" she whispered in his ear. "The only man"—_man_—"allowed to touch me…" She raked her fingernails across his scarred throat just hard enough to hurt, and heard his voice hitch in the dark. "_…in saecula saeculorum."_

"Bella," he said reverently. "_Bella_."

"You _don't _own me, Lestrange." She kissed him, pulling his hair until he broke away and gasped, then traced his lips as they curved upward in a dazed, wicked smile. "Remember that. I won't let you forget it."

"I could never."

"Tell me you want me," she hissed out, thrusting against him in the starlight. "Tell me you love me."

"I do," said Rodolphus. "_I do_."

When they slipped back inside the ballroom flushed and breathless, hand in hand, it took a moment to register why the music had gone silent and the dance floor had gone still. No one was looking at _them_…instead, every eye in the room was fixated on a lone figure in its centre, dressed all in black and cloaked in shadow. His red-rimmed eyes alone found Bellatrix, and with a sharp intake of breath, she dropped Rodolphus's hand.

The rest of the onlookers followed His gaze, and a stunned murmur shot through the crowd as she stepped forward. All sights and sounds were blurred, seeming to disappear into a soundless void as she neared Him. She was dimly aware of Andromeda standing rigidly beside Narcissa to the left, and Regulus staring awed and wide-eyed to the right, but He encompassed her senses entirely, leaving no room for thought.

Only when she was standing directly before Him—knees shaking so badly while fighting the urge to kneel that she could hardly stand—did He speak.

"Bellatrix Black." In fresh, riveted silence, the Dark Lord took her hand and raised it slowly—_slowly_—to His lips.

She lowered herself into the deepest curtsy of her life and met His bloody eyes, skin on fire. "Welcome to Grimmauld Place." She willed herself to keep her thoughts clear, mind open and willing for His Legilimency. _Master. Master. My Lord._

His smile, as always, could cut glass. He took her by the waist without hesitation or permission—igniting goosebumps on her bare skin, a feverish chill sweeping over her—and in a grand, still, silent ballroom surrounded by shocked, frozen guests, they danced.

Her body moved as though puppeteered, forced into movement by an innate compulsion outside of her control. It was staggering that He should be here, that her two worlds should so suddenly and astonishingly collide, that Lord Voldemort should stand among the upper echelons of Pureblood society and lead her in a dance. He stood out in stark contrast to the rest of the ballroom in its tranquil, cool civility: a dark and primal force, terrifying and compelling and exhilarating, setting the room aflame with a single glance.

They spun and spun in a dazzling, dizzying whirl, Bella's breath catching with every turn. The music might have started up again, the guests might have looked at each other in uneasiness and confusion before joining helplessly in the dance like so many other marionettes on His string, someone might have called her name—she heard none of it, and saw nothing but Him. Familiarity had desensitized her somewhat to the fearsome appearance of His face, seeming to grow more serpentine each day, but now she registered it all anew: waxen and vicious, cheekbones sharpened into knife-like edges, nostrils narrowing into slits, eyes burning red red _red_. The overall effect was as if the hand of the master sculptor that once hand-carved His striking features had slipped in the re-mastering, distorting them from beauty into horror. His chilled flesh—cold like a corpse—stuck to hers where they touched, and she knew she would feel it long after He released her; long after they had stepped apart.

"You are not marrying Rodolphus Lestrange," said the Dark Lord, too quietly for anyone else to hear. She nearly whirled to a stop, all the steps forgotten, but regained her footing in time and simply stared, breathless with all the things she wanted Him to say. _I alone will own you. You are mine. You belong to me._

"I'm _not, _my Lord?" She would call it off tonight if He bid her to—in front of everyone—if He desired—

"No," said the Dark Lord. "You are marrying the cause."

The cause. Rodolphus was only an extension of the cause. She would be wed not to a man, then, but to an _idea_.

Lord Voldemort—the name strained at her mind, pulling her toward it—was neither.

His eyes flickered downward, taking in the snakeskin gown—not lingering on her curves, but seeing deeper, penetrating past the fabric and skin and muscle and bone into her very soul. She stood petrified in a heightened suspension of space and time, no longer daring to breathe, and then it burst. "My congratulations on your debut," He said, loud enough this time for everyone to hear, and as soon as He was no longer holding her she fell.

When sight and sound returned in a rush of noise and colour, she was surrounded once more by people—poring over her, murmuring offers of assistance and exclamations of worry—_fainted_, came the whispers, _she's fainted—_dozens of gloved hands pulling her up from the hard stone floor. Rodolphus was next to her again and Narcissa was pushing through the crowd to hurry to her sister's side, light fingers warm and reassuring, but Bellatrix wrenched out of their grasp as she struggled to her feet once more.

He was gone.

The elders—her father, Pollux, Orion, Arcturus—were gathered in a tight circle on the dias, conversing urgently in low, desperate tones. Arcturus broke away and stormed in the direction of the doors leading to the downstairs hallway, toward the state chamber. "Father, not alone!" said Orion, hurrying after him, and Cygnus and Pollux followed with a quick, decisive glance, reaching into their dress robes for their wands.

In the mass of confusion and disorder on the dance floor, no one else appeared to have noticed them go—steeling herself, Bellatrix broke away from the concerned onlookers and disappeared into the crowd, ignoring the shouts of _"Bella!" _resonating from behind her.

She shut the entrance-way doors behind her too quickly for anyone to stop her and locked it with a swift non-verbal ward, then crept silently down the hallway toward the state room, where raised voices were filtering out the hastily cracked door. She peered through, catching her breath: there He was, waiting languid and relaxed, listening to Arcturus shout with a calm smirk playing about the edges of His lips.

"You _dare _return here—you dare enter our House, _touch our daughter_—" The smirk expanded into a full smile at that. "I can ruin you, Riddle," hissed Arcturus, tightening his white-knuckled grip on his wand. "Have you so easily forgotten?"

"Riddle no longer exists," said Lord Voldemort, rising from his languorous seat on the armchair to face the Black patriarch head-on. Formidable as Arcturus was, the Dark Lord towered over him, entirely unthreatened.

Arcturus sneered. "Yes, we all know what you're calling yourself these days."

The Dark Lord tilted His head ever-so-slightly to the right, this slight, subtle movement more menacing than any physical bluster. "Then you also know what I've _done._"

"Only what you've always done," snarled Arcturus. "I remember the Gaunt trial, Riddle. Perhaps you truly have forgotten? As Advisor to the Minister, I saw enough evidence to know that you are a liar, a thief, a murderer, and a _half-blood_, and you will _get out of this House._"

Bellatrix stifled a gasp as He stepped forward, ignoring Cygnus, Orion, and Pollux lifting their wands. As His eyes blazed full-red, He raised one skeletal white hand—and another hand covered Bella's mouth, wrenching her away from the door and muffling her scream. Any noise she might have made in the scuffle was further concealed by a great echoing _bang_, accompanied by a bright flash of white light, a thumping noise as something—someone—fell to the floor, and renewed, frantic shouts.

Panicking now, Bellatrix twisted around to face her attacker, who had dragged her into a side chamber close-by. _Walburga._ Her aunt threw her aside and slammed the door.

"Let me go!" Bellatrix cried furiously. "I don't know what's happening—I don't know—"

"How did he find you, girl? How did he ensnare you? _Answer me!_"

Bellatrix flailed helplessly, eyes darting toward the door. "I've never seen Him before in my life!"

"Save your lies," snapped Walburga. "I saw the way you looked at him. You can fool Orion and Cygnus, but you can't fool me. _They_ were younger than I was, in school. Riddle was in my year." Astonished, Bellatrix gathered herself and stared at her aunt. Somehow she had never thought to connect Him to the Family, in any way—never stopped to wonder _why _she was the only Black among His followers, when all her friends had fathers in His ranks. "I saw the Heirs of the wealthiest, most ancient Houses follow him around like faithful puppies," Walburga continued scornfully. "Even your mother's scheming brother fell hypnotized under his spell. But not me. Never a daughter of the House of Black. Not until now."

"I don't—"

"You think I don't remember what it's like?" Walburga cut in viciously. "To be promised all the power of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, only to have it ripped away from you and given to a _man_? Oh, I remember. But _I _fought to keep the power they tried to take from me, rather than seeking it elsewhere." Bella remembered with a shock that Walburga, too, had been the eldest Black child of her generation, and had _stayed _a daughter of the House by marrying her cousin Orion—its Heir. Her own eldest cousin's angry, arrogant face resurfaced painfully in her mind. _It didn't matter how hard I fought_, she thought fiercely. _Sirius still left. _When she did not reply aloud, Walburga, who was watching her closely, spoke again with matter-of-fact harshness. "You scorn marriage because you want to be powerful in your own right, yet you have merely found another way of relying on a man to give you power."

Bellatrix bristled at that, unable to remain silent any longer. "He's more than a man."

Walburga's cool grey eyes flashed triumphant. "Is he? I knew him when he was less than a man. When he was only a dangerously overconfident half-blood boy, desperate for the kind of ancient, blood-bound power only the old families have. Perhaps the man you know is not so different."

"I won't listen to this—" She moved furiously to the door, but her aunt seized her arm and physically wrenched her back. Bellatrix stood still again, stunned, head spinning, and Walburga's eyes narrowed.

"You'll listen, girl. You'll listen, and you'll _think_. I have lost one son. I will not lose the other. I will not let you let him destroy this House."

"He is the _Heir of Slytherin _and seeks to lead a Pureblood revolution!"

"He is a _half-blood _who seeks his own personal gain! If the blood of Salazar indeed runs within him it is thinned and diluted by Muggle contamination. He is no true Heir."

"You're lying!" screamed Bellatrix.

"Ask him, if you dare! Ask him what became of the tragic Slytherin foundling pretending to a lineage that was never his. Ask him how _Tom Riddle _became _Lord Voldemort._" Bellatrix glared, overwhelmed and livid, hovering on the brink of tears. "He hates us, child," Walburga said softer. "Hates us for having what he cannot. Hated me, hates you. He will suck you dry and leave you broken on the ground, bleeding out your old, Pure blood."

The door burst open.

Druella was all in disarray, her perfect ball in ruins, flawlessly charmed top-knot fast coming undone. "Walburga," she cried weakly, only then noticing her daughter. "Oh, and_Bellatrix_, oh, Bellatrix, darling—come quickly. Something terrible has happened, _terrible_—"

Bella went cold, remembering the loud, bright spell. "Is it Arcturus?" she managed. "Not—Father…"

Druella gaped at her, utterly bemused. "Arcturus? Darling, _what _are you saying? Come—Damien knows—just come—"

Walburga followed Bellatrix out of the side chamber at last, and the three of them proceeded back into the ballroom, Bellatrix glancing back only for a second at the now-closed state room door.

Guests mulled about in droves, demanding 'details' and 'confirmation' about something, and in the midst of them all Damien Rosier stood with Theodore Nott and several other Ministry employees in attendance, looking gravely serious. "Yes, I regret to say it's been confirmed," he was saying loudly over renewed shouts. "Nobby Leach has been killed."

Absolute chaos. The guests were thinning out, dispersing, Apparating away in loud _pops _of shock and panic, civility discarded. Bellatrix stood still for only a single long moment, then turned and raced back through the hallway toward the state room, jerking open the door—empty.

"Bella?"

She turned. Regulus appeared untouched by the commotion all around them, grey eyes shining with something akin to zeal.

"Go upstairs, Reg," she said softly, amazed at how level her voice could sound. "The ball is over."

"Where did he go?" he asked insistently, unmoving. "You know. _Him_."

Bellatrix cupped her youngest cousin's cheek in her hand, thinking how easy it would be to claw to shreds. "He's gone, Reggie. He's gone."

She moved toward the staircase herself, and he called after her, "But he'll be back, won't he? I'll meet him—you said I could."

Bella couldn't find the will to answer.

Upstairs, she went directly to Orion's office, where—as expected—the elders had congregated. But no…not all of them.

Arcturus was missing.

"You don't recover from a curse like that," Orion was saying, voice shaking. "You're a fool, Pollux. A fool."

"Who's the fool, boy?" roared Pollux. "_You're _in care of the ancestral home—to never think of putting up protective spells—"

Orion let out a peal of familiar barking laughter. "What, go into hiding?"

"With a man like that—"

"Bellatrix." Cygnus alone had noticed her. The others stopped shouting immediately. "You should go to sleep, Bella," her father said firmly. "It's been a long evening."

She didn't move. "The Minister of Magic is dead." Cygnus went ashen, and behind him, Orion sank into a chair. Bellatrix spoke quickly, before they had time to react. "Where is Grand Uncle Arcturus?"

It was Pollux who answered. "He's fallen ill, girl. The elves have him in their care. Don't worry your pretty little head about it. Go find your betrothed."

Bellatrix swept out of the room without another word, the green gown trailing out behind her and glistening in her wake.

Arcturus Black was injured—perhaps fatally—at His hand, the Minister was dead, and her debut ball, all things considered, was a complete disaster, but the necklace felt warmer than usual, and the cool trace of His touch still lingered on her skin.

* * *

She spent her last day at Grimmauld Place—for it was back to Hogwarts tomorrow, having only been allowed a weekend home for her birthday festivities—holed up in the study, poring over ostensibly her schoolbooks and more accurately her extracurricular materials. No one would speak frankly about last night, and the congratulation cards and thank you notes arrived as scheduled, but Druella hid the papers from her daughters and Bellatrix found it easiest to stay out of the way.

At half-past-noon, the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement came calling on his sister for tea. Bellatrix listened to her mother's quiet sobs drifting out from the parlour, unable to make out Damien's smooth, comforting words over the noise.

When they had made their goodbyes an hour later, she listened for the elves to send him off at the door, but was startled to look up and find him leaning, instead, against the study entrance.

"My dear, favourite niece," he admonished with an exaggerated finger wag, "what _have _I told you about eavesdropping?" Whatever had been ailing him last night, Damien seemed to have regained his _panache_.

She shrugged, starting to casually cover the Dark spellbook she'd been working through with a thick roll of parchment, then stopping (and nearly dissolving into laughter) upon remembering who she was dealing with. "Oh, Uncle, it's so difficult to keep all the things you've told me straight."

He laughed, helping himself to the liquor cabinet, charming out a vintage bottle of elf-made red wine and sitting down next to her on the couch. "Your mother is upset," he said dryly.

"I gathered as much."

He eyed her 'study materials' with detached amusement and finished an entire glass of wine in a single sip. "I am sorry to have missed your debut," he said suddenly, setting down the glass with a soft clang. "I understand it was…spectacular."

"What?" Bellatrix looked up, puzzled. "You were there."

His mouth quirked slightly. "Oh, I'm glad you think so. I had my doubts about Dolohov's impersonation abilities—I _am_ difficult to imitate, wouldn't you say?"

Damien's strange mannerisms and uncharacteristic anxiety the night of her ball resurfaced in a mad rush: the darting eyes, the odd gait, the way he had kept pulling at his gloves as though unused to wearing them.

"Polyjuice," said Bellatrix, staring at her uncle in dawning comprehension. "You needed an alibi."

He nodded with a faint, approving smile. "A good one, with hundreds of incontestable witnesses."

"Because," she finished slowly, "you were busy assassinating the Minister."

"What a ridiculous accusation, dear niece," Damien said pleasantly, reaching once more for his wine glass and downing it with a smirk. "The Department has determined that Leach was killed by zealous Muggleborn extremists attempting to take control of the Ministry. Unsuccessfully, I hardly need add…thanks to my own timely defence work. Cheers." He raised the empty glass and clinked it against Bella's own.

She gaped at him, glad for what seemed like the thousandth time that she and Damien Rosier were fighting on the same side. "I'm sure the Ministry is very grateful."

"Extremely," agreed Damien. "And gratitude _does _come in handy, what with the position of Minister so recently and unexpectedly vacated."

Bella's eyes widened. "They're going to appoint you his successor?"

Her uncle gave an amiable shrug, the perfect image of humility. "You know how devoted I am to the security of our society. I have never aspired to political power, but if it is thrust upon me…" He trailed off cheerfully, and Bellatrix finished privately: _We both know who will be running things behind the curtain_.

"Convincing," she said aloud with an un-ladylike snort.

"The game has only just begun," said Damien, standing and Summoning his cloak at last. "If you are truly no longer a pawn—" Bella flushed as images from that haunting night in Muggle London seared through her head. "—then prepare to become a player."

He stepped toward the fireplace, ready to Floo rather than return to the main entryway. Bellatrix opened her mouth. "Uncle, wait." He turned, and she swallowed. "Who was Tom Riddle?"

Damien's angelic features transfigured at the name, shining and transcendent, and he gave a slow, radiant smile. "Only a boy, Bella. A bastard boy, bred from the Purest of bloodlines and raised by Muggles—until his talent shone so indisputably that even they could no longer deny it. The most gifted boy Hogwarts has ever seen." His gaze—lost in the distance at something Bellatrix could not see—centred on her once more, intent and calculating. "He had a way of _knowing _you, better than anyone, better than yourself—your secret desires, your dearest ambitions—and he had a way of making them _real_. You understand." Bella's breath had gone shallow. Oh yes, she understood. _Even your mother's scheming brother fell hypnotized under his spell. _And was it any wonder? "Tom Riddle was extraordinary," Damien finished softly, "but he was only a boy. Lord Voldemort is much more than Tom Riddle."

Upstairs, Arcturus Black was dying, Andromeda Black was crying, Regulus Black secretly pasted newspaper clippings to the wall, Orion and Cygnus Black laid down the most powerful protective counter-enchantments the wizarding world had ever seen, and Sirius Black's name stayed scorched on a rapidly disintegrating family tree.

Downstairs, the green fire in the drawing room hissed and crackled softly when the Head of the DMLE had gone, and Bellatrix Black watched the flames move in shadows on two empty wine glasses for several long, aching moments.

_I am only a girl_, she thought silently, but then—_I will become so much more than that._


	10. Epilogue

**DARK  
**Chapter X – Epilogue

* * *

_Selected excerpts from __The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_, _Chapter 2: The Death Eaters, __published in 1985_

[…] Evan Rosier, ultimately found responsible for the bloody death of Benjamin Fenwick, was killed by Alastor Moody while resisting arrest, following a lengthy duel in which Rosier permanently disfigured Moody's face, removing part of his nose. The younger Rosier's death struck a particularly poignant note in light of Moody's slaying of Damien Rosier some ten years prior, following the latter's infamous unmasking as a Death Eater by Caradoc Dearborn and Dorcas Meadowes (for speculation on the disappearance of Dorcas Meadowes and her later connection to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's army of inferi, see _Chapter 8: Gorgons and the Green Death_).

Maximus Mulciber and his son Vulcan were arrested and convicted on interrogational information provided by Antonin Doholov, later confirmed by Igor Karkaroff.

Altair Avery was apprehended on suspicion of Death Eater activity but released when Vulcan Mulciber testified under Veritaserum that Avery had been acting under the influence of the Imperius Curse in the years following an attack on his younger sister by unnamed Death Eaters (by then a socialite pointedly removed from her brother's activities, Alana Zambini refused all requests to comment).

Lucius Malfoy also pleaded the Imperius when accused, and most of his accusers later retracted their claims and issued public apologies. The Malfoy estate made several large donations to the surviving families of Death Eater victims, and Malfoy himself was soon appointed to a Governing position within the Ministry.

Severus Snape was claimed by a large number of convicted Death Eaters to have been one himself, but was never put on trial due to unknown confidential transactions with Albus Dumbledore, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and Headmaster of Hogwarts.

Ministry Unspeakable Augustus Rookwood was eventually convicted not only of Death Eater activity but also of virtually masterminding the Hogwarts Graduation Massacre of 1975, widely known as the event in which He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named first revealed himself to the public, inspiring widespread fear to speak his name.

The circumstances of Sirius Black's shocking betrayal and subsequent arrest are well known, discussed in detail in _Chapter 5: Toujours Pur. _[…]

Rodolphus and Bellatrix Lestrange, as well as Rodolphus's younger brother Rabastan, were among the first accused. After nearly a week of private interrogations in custody, however, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement Barty Crouch pardoned them both and dropped all charges. His personal reasons for doing so were made clear nearly a month later, when the Lestranges and Crouch's own son were apprehended during an attack on Frank and Alice Longbottom. It was widely speculated that Crouch had struck a deal with the Lestranges to avoid his son's involvement coming to light, though this has never been proven.

In the second round of public trials, all four were convicted and sentenced to life in Azkaban, where they remain to this day, the world dreading to imagine what might happen if they were ever to escape.

* * *

**A/N: **To everyone who kept up with this story during its original publication – thank you, and many apologies for being unable to finish it as planned when real life intervened! Keeping it up here, along with this new epilogue hinting at the conclusions of various planned plotlines, by request. x


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